


Zugzwang

by thejester (darkavenger)



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Dubious Morality, M/M, Paperwork, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-05-10 12:23:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 68,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5585233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/thejester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order to save a mortally injured Prowl's life, Jazz merges his spark with Prime's new Tactical CO, inadvertently creating a sparkbond as a result. </p><p>Now they both have to live with the consequences of this decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Continuity what continuity. For the purposes of this fic, Prowl joins Prime's team on earth later than everyone else. Vaguely G1 ish.

“Jazz. What have you _done_?” 

Ratchet’s voice is low, carefully controlled, but that doesn’t mask the horror in it as the medic examines the prone form of Prime’s new tactical CO.  

Jazz leans back against a medbay berth, but his affected nonchalance is somewhat marred by his folded arms and tightly contained EM field. “What I had to do,” he says, as lightly as he can manage, “Or he woulda offlined before I could get him to ya.” 

“You shouldn’t have done it,” Ratchet says, still not looking in his direction.   

“You sayin’ I shoulda let him die?” Jazz’s lips quirk in a crooked grin, though he feels more queasy than amused. “And here I thought that medic coding meant valuing life above everythin’.” 

“Not above a mech’s right to autonomy over their own frame, processor and spark!” 

“So, you tellin’ me you’d have let him die, Ratch?” Jazz fights to keep the smile on his lips. “That if you’d have been there, you’d have let him die? Let another mech die, knowin’ you could save him?”  

Ratchet’s hands are as steady as always as they gently probe the jagged edges of the hole that takes up most of what should be the mech’s torso, but his EM field is a whirling riot of confused emotion that the medic isn’t even trying to contain.   

“You know that blast woulda killed him,” Jazz says, nodding at the injury. “Missed his spark by micromechameters. Ain’t no other way I coulda saved him, not out in the field like that.” 

“Yes, well. I doubt he'll thank you for this,” Ratchet says curtly. 

“Yeah?” Jazz rolls his neck, tilting his helm back to stare at the ceiling and not at the mech on the berth. “Good thing I didn't save him for a thank you.” 

 

“You did what?!”   

Jazz carefully doesn’t flinch, or allow his expression to so much as flicker, keeping the bored, almost amused shadow of a smile on his face. “I merged my spark with his and created a bond, in order to stop it from gutterin’.” 

The look of horror on Ironhide’s face is almost funny, but the thoughtful, disquieted look on Prime’s face is enough to kill the humor. There’s an odd, sour feeling roiling in Jazz's tanks, like he’s consumed a fuel source full of impurities, but he forces himself to keep up the casual act. “I’ll admit, it’s an unorthodox way to keep a mech online, but hey, I had t’improvise.” 

“But - but -” Red Alert splutters, looking dumbfounded, “That means you’re sparkbonded to him.” 

“Yep.” 

“To a stranger. A - a mech you don’t even know!” 

“Yep,” Jazz repeats, grimly holding on to the cheery tone.  

“And this stranger didn’t get a say in this at all,” Ratchet interjects, tone sharper than his own scalpels.  

A silence falls over the meeting room, broken only by the small scraping noises of mechs shifting in their seats and studiously avoiding looking each other in the optics. In particular, no one seems to want to look at Jazz. He doesn’t blame them, not really - frag, it makes him want to purge his tanks, and he’s a trained torturer. Sparkmerging was an intimate thing, and bad and illegal enough to do without the consent of the other mech, turning what was supposed to be an act of love and sharing into the grossest sort of violation - but sparkbonding. Doing that without permission - joining another mech to you, tying your spark to theirs in a permanent, unbreakable bond  - that was infinitely worse. Yet it had been the only way to save the mech’s life. No wonder they were so torn. Jazz had done the right thing, but in the wrong way. Which, as head of Special Ops, was kinda his thing.  

The silence is finally broken by Optimus. There’s a crackle of static as his vocaliser reboots, and then he speaks. “What’s done is done. I believe Jazz did what he believed necessary to preserve the life of a fellow autobot.” 

“But Prime -” Ratchet begins.  

“You just gonna let him get away with this?” Ironhide makes no attempt to hide his anger. “What he did, on Cybertron -” 

“We are not on Cybertron,” Prime cuts him off. “We are on an alien world, and at war.” Both Ironhide and Ratchet open their mouths as if to continue arguing, but Prime holds up a hand to stop them both. “That is not to say I agree with Jazz’s… methods.” He turns his gaze on Jazz, making no attempt to hide the troubled look in his optics. “What you did, Jazz… If a Decepticon had done so, I would label it a war crime. I believe you that it was the only way to save Prowl’s life, but doing so without Prowl’s agreement this  is not something I can condone, or overlook.” 

A heavy silence falls following Optimus’s speech. Jazz opens his mouth to try and break it, but there’s only the click of his vocaliser failing to initialize.  

This time Ratchet is the one to break the silence. “So,” he says heavily. “What will Jazz’s punishment be? As you pointed out, Optimus, we’re not on Cybertron. We don’t have the resources to imprison anyone long-term, let alone someone with Jazz’s training.” 

Red Alert stirs. “Corporal punishment could be an option.” 

Jazz keeps himself perfectly still. Pain doesn’t bother him. It would be a less frustrating punishment than being locked up as this way he could still be useful, but he can’t pretend at least to himself that hearing mechs he considers friends discuss having him whipped or beaten upsets him.  

“No,” Optimus says firmly, and Jazz tries not to slump in relief. “Making this into a public spectacle would be damaging to morale. And,” he admits quietly, “I can’t deny I find the prospect of hurting an unarmed and restrained mech distasteful.” 

“I’d be happy to do it for ya,” Ironhide growls. “Besides, it ain’t like Jazz hasn’t ever hurt an unarmed mech." 

Jazz doesn't allow himself to stiffen. He's always known that what he does, what he is, makes mechs like Ironhide uncomfortable. He'd known from the start of this whole thing that he was going to face fallout. So he keeps quiet and doesn't speak up in his own defense. He doesn't need to. 

"That's enough, Ironhide." Optimus looks at Jazz. "While we may wish that some parts of Jazz's job were not necessary, we do not have that luxury. Still,"  and the look Prime levels at him feels like it's searching Jazz's spark itself, "While being at war might mean having to compromise our morals, we are not Decepticons. We will not win at any cost." 

Ratchet vents heavily, abruptly sounding more weary than angry.  "Which brings us back to deciding on a suitable punishment." 

"I must admit, I find myself at a loss," Optimus shakes his helm. "This was not a scenario I ever envisioned having to deal with." 

"Well, you know how I think we oughta handle it," Ironhide growls, metal clanging as he slaps a fist into his palm. 

"Oh shut up, Ironhide," Ratchet snaps, "like beating the slag out of Jazz will change anything." 

"It'll make me feel better," Ironhide grumbles, optics smoldering with a barely contained fury. 

"Yes, well, this isn't about you," Ratchet says tartly, "This is about the mech in my medbay who's going to wake up to find himself bonded without consent to a mech he doesn't know!" 

"Ratchet has a point," Optimus says gravely. "Here we sit, discussing a suitable punishment for Jazz's actions, without consulting the victim or taking his feelings into account." 

Ratchet splutters, vocaliser spitting static, before recovering. "Optimus, I wasn't suggesting leaving the punishment up to Prowl!" 

"Why not?" Prime asks simply.  

"Well! It's - it's not appropriate!" 

"Ratchet is right," Red Alert interjects, "it's not the place of the victim to decide on a punishment. They cannot think with the necessary clarity or detachment to decide on a fair outcome." 

"And apparently neither can we," Optimus says, looking at Ironhide. After a moment the old soldier drops his defiant gaze. Ex-venting, Optimus continues, "I am not saying we leave Jazz's punishment entirely in Prowl's hands, simply that we make him part of the discussion. After all, so far he has had no say in any of this situation." 

"Frag it, Optimus, I hate this but you have a point." Ratchet frowns unhappily.  

"I still think it's inappropriate," Red Alert says. 

"And I still say he deserves a good hiding." 

Jazz meets Ironhide's hostile gaze with a wry smile. "I'll try not to take that too personal." 

"So it's decided," Optimus says firmly, before Ironhide can respond and things can escalate "We wait for Prowl to be back online before we decide on anything. Ratchet, when can we expect him to be up?" 

The CMO hums thoughtfully. "Despite the extensive nature of his injuries, he's stable. I've fixed the worst of the damage internally, so now it's just a matter of repairing his plating. I should be able to bring him out of stasis by tomorrow, although I recommend he takes a couple of days before starting active duty. He would have needed a few days to adjust to Earth before starting his duties anyway, so this shouldn't strike anyone else as odd." 

Prime nods. "In that case, let's reconvene tomorrow. Ratchet, let us know when he's ready to see us, so we can talk things over. "  

"Understood," Ratchet says. "For now everyone should get some recharge. That includes you Optimus. And I don't think I need to tell you all that this should be kept quiet. If I hear so much as a whisper of gossip about this, Primus help me, I'll turn whoever is responsible into parts." 

"I'm sure there is no need to worry about discretion," Optimus says, fixing everyone in the room with a stern glance. Whatever he sees must convince him that no one is going to talk, and he gives a nod, signaling satisfaction and dismissal in one gesture. The meeting room empties swiftly. Normally, there'd be some dawdling, some small talk, maybe an informal reconvening to someone's quarters to talk less officially about the meeting's contents, but tonight if there's any plan to do so, Jazz is not invited. He busies himself tidying away a datapad into his subspace while the others are leaving, until he's the last person left in the room.  

"Not like you to keep so quiet," Mirage says, appearing beside him. Jazz doesn't do much as twitch at the revelation of the spy's presence. He'd trained 'Raj, after all, and he would have been disappointed if Mirage hadn't been watching.  

"Don't think anyone was particularly interested in hearing anything I have to say," Jazz says ruefully, thinking of Ironhide in particular. 

Mirage makes a dismissive noise. "I didn't expect that to stop you. Seriously Jazz, why didn't you defend yourself?"  

Jazz shrugs. "I did a bad thing," he says simply. 

"Yes, but you had your reasons," Mirage persists. "And I'm sure there's more to it than just saving another mech's life. Primus, it's not like you wanted to be bonded to some stranger either." Mirage's tone is too well-bred to betray distaste, and besides, as a Towers mech, the concept of bonding for reasons other than love aren't totally alien. 

"Sometimes, even if you do things for the right reasons, it don't change the fact they're wrong." 

Mirage's silence concedes Jazz's point. 

Jazz chuckles tiredly. "They're mad at me. That's alright. I knew they would be, knew what I was doing was wrong, that I wouldn't be able to hide it and Prime wouldn't be able to ignore it, and I did it anyway. So now they've gotta punish me. You know the game, 'Raj." The first rule of Special Ops was don't get caught. The problem was there was no way Jazz's gambit was ever going to go undetected.  

"And you're just going to stay quiet and let them?" Mirage's voice is incredulous with disbelief. "Look, I understand that what you did was wrong, and I understand feeling guilt, but it doesn't change the necessity of what you did. What you _do_. What if they do find a way to lock you up? Or if they demote you? They might not like what you do, your methods, but they need you." Mirage doesn't say it, but Jazz knows he means, _they need us_. Jazz's punishment could have ramifications for the whole department. 

One corner of Jazz's mouth curls up into a humorless smile. "They do need us. Don't worry Raj, I'm not planning on losing my job over this." 

"Then why didn't you talk to them," Mirage demands. "Why didn't you explain!" 

"It's not _them_ I need t' convince." 

Mirage gives Jazz an utterly unreadable look. "You're talking about the new tactical officer." _The one you violated._ "You really really think _he's_ going to be rational about this?" 

Jazz thinks back over the personnel file he'd acquired and smiles grimly. "Mech, I'm banking on it." 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz and Prowl have a conversation.

“Heya.”

In the middle of booting up, it takes Prowl a moment to process the greeting. English, his language databanks inform him, an Earth language, and after a brief, giddy moment of confusion he remembers why it is that such a primitive language is in his databanks. He’d been sent to Earth to become Prime’s Chief Tactical Officer, the promotion born out of necessity, his predecessor having been offlined shortly after Prime’s unit arrived on Earth. Prowl had arrived… half an orn ago, according to his chronometer, though he’s struggling to access his mid-term memory banks. A day, he thinks. That’s the local time equivalent. He’s lost an entire day.  _ Why? _

“You online, mech?” 

Absently, Prowl places the accent. Underclass Iaconian. The tone is neutral, edging towards wary. Interesting. That decreases the probability that Prowl’s being held captive by Decepticons substantially. After all, why would a mech holding him prisoner need to be on his guard? But then, why would an ally? Deciding that he’s gathered as much information as possible with audio input alone, Prowl boots up his optics, relieved when they turn on without any difficulties. 

The stark and sterile interior of a darkened medbay greets him, the familiar if mysterious collection of vaguely medical looking equipment a comforting presence. Prowl relaxes slightly. Whatever is wrong with him, he’s being looked after. Initial fears assuaged, he turns his attention to discovering the identity of the other mech in the room. While he can’t sit up, further evidence that he’s been injured in some way, and further explanation for why he’s in a medbay instead of his new quarters, he can tip his head to the side. 

In the gloom of the medbay, it’s hard to make out the frame of the other mech as anything other than a medium to small mass huddled on the berth opposite Prowl’s own, and all that Prowl can really make out is the soft blue glow of the mech’s visor. Watching him. For some reason, his spark seems to pulse in his chassis, and Prowl feels a pang of alarm. What kind of injury has he suffered to affect his spark in this manner? Ruthlessly, Prowl quashes the concern. Clearly, the injury isn’t life-threatening, and he assigns finding out the specifics of his medical status as a lower priority task than finding out the identity of his mystery mech. Prowl boots his vocaliser, voice distorted and staticky from stasis. “Designation?”

“Jazz,” the other mech says, and Prowl hadn’t imagined that wary edge to his voice. “I’m Prime’s head of Special Ops.” Prowl stiffens slightly, and the other mech must see it, because he gives a low chuckle. “Don’t worry, I ain’t here to offline you.”

“Why are you here?” Strangely, Jazz’s words aren’t doing much to reassure Prowl, but besides the unease there’s a growing irritation at Jazz’s reticence. Cloaking-tech and dagger, Prowl thinks acidly. Special Ops and their affinity for dramatics. Tactical mechs tend far more to the pragmatic. “Why am I here, for that matter?”

It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Prowl thinks the way Jazz shifts seems uneasy. Prowl’s past life as an Enforcer means he can spot guilt on a mech at a hundred mechameters and this Jazz is covered in it. 

“You got hurt.”

Prowl has a hard time keeping from voicing his impatience with Jazz’s caginess. Like he hadn’t already deduced that. Like that wasn’t obvious from the setting. He forces himself to keep quiet, hoping Jazz will start giving him some specifics. 

“There was a skirmish. Megatron was there. He used his gunform an’ you got caught in the crossfire.”

The current in Prowl’s circuits seems to stop for a moment. What Megatron’s altform lacked in intimidation factor it made up in sheer power. If Prowl had been hit by Megatron himself, the damage must have been extensive. 

“Yeah,” Jazz says, and if Prowl wasn’t currently glitching out about getting shot by Megatron, he’d probably be a little alarmed at how easily the other bot seems to read him. “Your whole upper half was pretty much slag.”

“How am I online?” Prowl asks. This makes no sense - the type of damage Jazz is describing should be fatal. He should be dead, or locked in critical stasis and attended by a team of medics. He definitely shouldn’t be online less than an orn afterwards. 

“Yeah, see,” Jazz’s form shifts, and the uneasy undercurrent that’s been present the whole conversation seems to grow stronger, “now that’s what I need to talk to you about.”

Dramatics. Prowl doesn’t bother to keep the impatience from his voice this time. “Jazz.” A warning. “How am I online?”

Jazz tells him. 

 

Prowl takes the news pretty well, all things considered. There’s a few nasty breems after Jazz blurts out the whole sordid tale where Prowl goes so still and silent that Jazz begins to think he’s having a processor crash, and Primus, Ratchet really is gonna kill him - but then Prowl says, in a cold, clipped tone, “I see. By tying my spark to your own, you were able to stabilise me long enough for proper medical intervention.” 

Jazz nods. 

“Smart,” is the clinical assessment. “Completely illegal and morally bankrupt, but smart.” Prowl fixes Jazz a stare that makes it all too easy to see his altmode is an Enforcer vehicle - Jazz has been caught in the headlights of the law before, and the feeling is exactly the same - like the stare is a physical force, pinning him to the berth. “Why did you do it?”

Jazz has been asked that question a lot today but never yet with this particular tone, this particular inflection. Prowl is actually asking why, not the horrified _how could you?_   that everyone else means when they ask why, and Jazz feels a certain weight of anxiety lift. The personnel file hadn’t lied. Jazz hasn’t miscalculated. 

His tone is as emotionally detached as Prowl’s. “‘Cause we need ya. More’n half of Autobot High Command have been offlined in the past vorn. We’re runnin’ out of officers, ‘specially good ones. An’ you’re meant to be good.”

“Good enough that you were willing to violate my spark to save me?” Prowl asks, and Jazz can hear the skepticism even if he can’t hear the anger he knows must be there, somewhere. “Not to mention compromise your own spark.” 

Jazz lets his heels kick in an odd, syncopated rhythm. “We’re losing the war, you know,” he says offhandedly, watching Prowl closely under his visor. 

Prowl goes quiet for a long moment. “I know.”

Jazz nods, satisfied. “‘Course you do. Mech like you, with your kinda software, you gotta be running the odds.”

“Chances of decisive victory have fallen to 2.3% over the past decaorn,” Prowl says. It sounds like an admission.

“What’re our chances at any kinda victory?” Jazz presses the opening. 

In the dark, he can’t make out Prowl’s expression, but Jazz doubts it changes visibly in any case. Prowl’s poker face might be better than Jazz’s own. 

“Not good,” the other mech says, after a pause. 

Jazz chuckles knowingly. “I’m guessing really not good if you’re not giving me a number.”

“You guess correctly,” Prowl says drily. There’s another pause. “I… understand why you did what you did. It was the logical solution.”

“The logical solution,” Jazz can’t stop himself from laughing a little disbelievingly. “Mech, an’ I thought I was cold-sparked.” Prowl’s optics flare a little brighter at that, and Jazz waves a hand in apology, “Sorry, sorry. I know what you mean, it’s just… hard to believe you’re really reacting like this.”

“How would you prefer me to react?” Prowl asks, stiffer than he normally is and Jazz thinks he’s offended him. “Should I scream and hurl recriminations at you? Demand that your spark be isolated in a containment chamber?”

“S’about what everyone expects you to do, yeah,” Jazz says lightly. 

“Everyone?”

“The other officers,” Jazz clarifies, “Don’t worry. The whole base don’t know.”

Prowl’s brow lowers in a frown. “But the other officers know. They’re displeased with you.”

“Mech, you sure have a way of understating matters,” Jazz says, thinking with a wince about Ironhide and Ratchet and the way their anger and their disgust feels strong enough to strip his paint. “Yeah, they’re fragged-off. Be even more fragged off if they knew I was here, talking to ya, and they're already thinking about throwing me in a smelter.”

“They want to smelt you?” Prowl says, sounding gratifyingly concerned, “That’s barbaric.”

Jazz shrugs a shoulder tire. “I might be exaggerating. But they’re pretty mad.”

“So what is your punishment?”

“Um. Undecided. They’re waiting to ask you what my punishment should be.” 

“They want to _what?”_

Jazz looks up at the startled question, engine rumbling a little in amusement. There’s not really much about this situation that’s funny, but Jazz has to admit, he didn’t expect Prowl to be more flustered by a deviation in proper protocol than by the illicit sparkbonding.

“But that’s - that’s completely inappropriate.” Prowl continues to splutter, and Jazz continues to find it amusing.

“That’s what Alert said,” Jazz says, “But I mean, it’s not like what I did wasn’t a whole lot more inappropriate.” 

“Still,” Prowl says, not quite sounding like he agrees, “I can’t allow this. I’ll have to tell them that I’m not impartial enough to be a judge of your punishment.”

“Not impartial enough? Coulda fooled me,” Jazz says lightly, then, rather less lightly, he adds, “Besides, that’s actually what I came here to talk to you about.”

“I thought you came here to to confess to what you had done,” Prowl says, levelly. 

“Well, yeah,” Jazz says, shifting a little, “that too. But I also need to ask you a favour.”

“A favour,” Prowl repeats the word like he’s never heard of the concept. 

“I realise that this is pretty ridiculous, all things considered - you don’t owe me nothin’ and you gotta whole lot of reason not to like me.” Jazz tries for a smile, but it slides off his mouthplate like water off a fresh coat of wax. “But I read your personnel file -” Prowl’s encrypted, Prime’s eyes only personnel file, Jazz thinks with a hidden wince, yet another invasion of privacy, and he really hopes Prowl won’t get too mad, “- and I didn’t think the person in that file would let something personal get in the way of the bigger picture.”

It’s kinda hard to read body language when the other mech’s strapped to a berth, but it’s easy enough to read Prowl’s expression. The tactical officer gives Jazz a look that calculates him down to the last decimal. 

“I find your analysis of my professionalism flattering, but I still don’t see why I should help you. I understand why you made the decision you did, and I agree with it, but the fact still remains that you did something wrong and should be punished accordingly. Besides,” Prowl’s voice drops a few decibels, “professional or not, I cannot deny that I am angry.” By his side, Prowl’s hand clenches into a fist, as if his admission of emotion has angered him further. 

“Y’got a right to be angry,” Jazz says, softly. Something in him, a directive that seems to originate directly from his spark and bypass his processor entirely is telling him to go to Prowl’s side and comfort him. A ridiculous impulse, and one that Prowl definitely won’t appreciate, he tells himself firmly.

“Clearly I am not as cold-sparked as people say.” 

Jazz grimaces. “I shouldn’t have called you that. Sorry. You’re angry, I know. But I’m not asking you not to punish me, I’m just asking you not to demote me.”

“Demote you?” Prowl says. “I didn’t realise that was being considered.”

Jazz shrugs. “No one’s said it, but I’m sure it’s bein’ considered. SpecOps isn’t Prime’s favourite department anyways, and there’ve always been worries about what we’re willing to do. Now Prime knows ‘xactly what I’m willing to do.”

“You’re not saying he’d shut down the whole department, are you?” Prowl asks, optics narrowing as he focuses on Jazz. “That would be disastrous. Without your department to gather information, my ability to strategize is extremely restricted.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Optimus wouldn’t do that,” Jazz assure him. “He might not like it, but he gets we’re necessary. Nah, he just might be thinkin’ maybe there should be a new head of department. One less likely to get creative.” 

“One less likely to do what needs to be done,” Prowl says, understanding perfectly.

“‘Xactly,” Jazz agrees. 

They both fall silent, Prowl presumably considering all Jazz has told him. Jazz bounces a pede idly, once again to the off-beat rhythm running through his processor. 

Mirage might not be so bad. If Jazz had to pick a replacement. The spy is incredibly talented at his specialty. Specialised is a dirty word as far as Jazz is concerned though, another word for limited, and Jazz knows that spying isn’t enough. Not to win the war, Pit, not even to keep this ragged army alive. Prime needs the best, and Jazz isn’t called Meister for nothing. Still. Prime could pick worse than Mirage. _Primus help me, anyone but Bumblebee_. 

Prowl is so quiet and motionless that he seems to fade into the background, and any other mech than Jazz would have caught off-guard when he finally speaks. “It seems the only option is for me to put my personal feelings aside and ask Prime not to punish you. 

“Won’t work,” Jazz replies. 

Prowl frowns. “I thought you said that your punishment was being left in my hands.” 

“Yeah, punishment bein’ the operative word. If you say you don’t want me punished, they’ll just think you ain’t got spark for it and punish me anyway.”

“Which might mean finding an inferior mech for your position.” Prowl’s frown deepens. “Which is an unacceptable outcome.”

“Yep,” Jazz nods, feigning a lightheartedness he doesn’t feel. “So better get creative. If you’ve got a sadistic streak, then here’s an opportunity to indulge it. You can make me scrub your floors for a vorn.”

Prowl ignores Jazz’s attempt to lighten the mood. Actually, Jazz isn’t entirely sure Prowl actually heard him speak. The other mech’s optics had kinda dimmed after he finished his last sentence, a sure sign that a processor is allocating priority to other tasks. Jazz’s finely tuned audials pick out the low hum of Prowl’s systems, low, but louder than they normally are; from the sounds of it, he’s really thinking something over. 

“Have you considered the possibility that even if I do pick a punishment, Prime might still have you demoted?”

Jazz freezes for a nanoklik, not long, but long enough for his swinging foot to fall out of rhythm. “Not if you think of a good enough punishment.” 

The glib response comes quick enough to hopefully distract Prowl from noticing that he’d caught Jazz off guard. Jazz doesn’t like being caught off guard, and he doesn’t want Prowl to make it a habit. Frag it all, but there’s a possibility he’d not considered. 

“I don’t see how increasing the severity of the punishment will help,” Prowl says. 

“Sure it’ll help,” Jazz says quickly, “you just gotta think of something nasty to teach me a lesson. Show me the error of my ways, an’ all that slag. I’ve been a bad, bad mech but I’m sorry, it’ll never happen again.”

Prowl gives Jazz a look that says he’s not buying it. 

“Aw, c’mon, I’ll make it more believable than that,” Jazz protests. 

“If Prime’s problem is that he doesn’t feel he can trust you, then that cannot easily be fixed. Coming up with a punishment that only humiliates or inconveniences you will only act as a stopgap. It might serve in the short term, but in the long term as a solution it will fail.” 

Prowl’s words are cool and carefully weighted. As much as he wants to protest, Jazz can’t deny their logic. Wideopticked, Jazz stares at Prowl from  behind his visor. It’s not that he’s shortsighted, but he couldn’t have analysed or summarised the situation between him and Prime as clearly as Prowl just did, despite how much longer he’s served under Prime. 

“I’m beginnin’ to see why you got such glowing commendations,” Jazz says finally. “So, what’s the plan?”

As if the word ‘plan’ was some secret command prompt, Prowl _smiles._

Beautiful, Jazz thinks, spark pulsing almost painfully, but also completely terrifying. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos, I really appreciate it. The next update for this fic probably won't be for a week since work seems to want to kill me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which lots of conversations are had.

“Hello, Prowl. It is good to see you online once more,” Optimus says gravely, looking down at the berthbound mech. He’d known of Prowl from his own Enforcer days, back when he was still Orion Pax, before the Matrix had chosen him and before the war had broken out. They had never worked together, but Prowl’s reputation as an excellent strategist with a cool head  - and a cool spark, some said - had been common knowledge. The Praxian certainly looks calm, and Ratchet had told him that Prowl had apparently taken the news in stride, but Optimus still hesitates before asking gently, “How are you feeling?”  

“Prime,” Prowl struggles to sit up. “Sir.” 

“At ease,” Optimus says, a little concerned. The welding on Prowl’s chassis looks so very fresh, the metal still a dull and unpainted grey, that Optimus can’t help but worry that Prowl’s going to damage something. “You don’t need to sit up on my account.”  

“As you say, sir,” Prowl says, though by now he’s sat bolt upright, as close to attention as he can currently get.  

Optimus exchanges a glance with Ratchet.  _ So very formal. _ Optimus has gotten used to the more relaxed atmosphere of the Earth base, and he finds himself a little wrongfooted by the stiff and totally proper way Prowl is behaving. It’s certainly a contrast to his other officers, Optimus thinks a little ruefully. Ironhide’s leaning by the doorway behind him like a bouncer, while Jazz sulks in a corner like a scolded newframe. Ratchet’s bedside manner is exemplified by the spanner he hefts in an absentminded yet threatening way, while Red Alert had opted not to come to the medbay itself, but had informed Optimus that  _ he’d be watching _ . Earth has turned them all a little strange. “Ratchet tells me you’ve almost recovered from your physical injuries,” Optimus tries again, striving for delicacy.  

“I am almost functioning within normal parameters,” Prowl agrees. “I should be able to resume my duties this orn.”  

“Absolutely not!” Ratchet says, engine spluttering. “You’re not leaving this medbay until I clear you for duty if I have to keep you strapped to that berth.  

“What Ratchet is trying to say, is there’s no need to rush your recovery,” Optimus says. “You were gravely hurt, in both frame… and spark.”  

Prowl stiffens, quite a feat since he’d not been exactly relaxed to start with. “I am well enough to work.”  

“You most certainly are not - !” 

“Prowl,” Optimus says, interrupting Ratchet before the rant can get truly underway. “I understand that you may not wish to talk about it, but I cannot ignore the sparkbond.” 

Prowl’s doorwings twitch, a brief, quick movement signalling his distress before they’re locked against his back in a neutral position.  

“I am truly sorry about what happened,” Optimus presses on, determinedly, even though Prowl looks like he really would rather not talk about this. “And I assure you, Jazz is not going unpunished. While his quick thinking may have saved your life, it was done so at a high cost.”  

Prowl says nothing. Optimus' peripheral sensors detect Jazz shifting slightly on his pedes, but the saboteur also stays quiet. Neither of the two have so much as glanced at the other. 

Optimus vents in quiet frustration. Prowl might not be blowing fuses or screaming the ‘bay down, but this is every bit as awkward and awful as he had feared. He presses on. “Actually, that is partly why I came to see you. I wanted to discuss with you what punishment you feel would be appropriate for Jazz.” Optimus hesitates, forcing himself not to look at Jazz. Despite his deep disappointment in the actions of his subordinate, Jazz has been a loyal and valued comrade for countless orn. He steels his spark, knowing that Prowl has a right to inflict the worst of punishments on Jazz. Still, he is Optimus Prime. “That said, I will not agree to a punishment that can be considered cruel or unusual.”  

“You’re letting me pick his punishment?” Prowl asks. 

“Yes,” Optimus inclines his head. “It is unorthodox, but so is this situation. It would be difficult and perhaps insensitive to hold a formal tribunal. Ratchet and Ironhide have agreed to be present to judge whether your decision is reasonable.” 

“Just let me know if you want me to hold him down,” Ironhide says, engine a growling underscore to his fierce words.  

“Ironhide,” Optimus says, reprimanding. His old friend settles, but his EM field is unrepentant. Jazz’s own field is still, not betraying his own emotions with so much as a flicker. At the edge of his audio detection, Optimus can hear him humming, though he doesn't recognise the tune. To Prowl, Optimus says, “I understand this is unexpected. You will need time to process, both the sparkbonding and the punishment. When you decide -”  

“I’ve decided,” Prowl interrupts, hands folded neatly in front of him. 

“Already?” Optimus can't hide his surprise. 

“Are you sure?” Ratchet presses, frowning at his patient. “I only told you a few joors ago about the sparkbonding, you must still be in shock -” 

“My processor is able to handle several thousand computations a second. My function is to absorb and analyse information, and to generate strategies based on that information,” Prowl says a little testily. “I have run the simulations and come up with the most efficient and fitting punishment.” 

“What have you decided on?” Optimus asks, trying to maintain a properly impassive tone. He reminds himself that Prowl was an Enforcer, a good one. His punishment will not be unjust.  

“I want you to demote him.”  

Optimus relaxes. A thoroughly reasonable request, and one he himself had been considering. “Done,” he says, relieved, “I will have him replaced immediately. One of the mech’s from his department should serve as an adequate replacement; perhaps -” 

“No,” Prowl interrupts again.

Optimus tilts his helm, quizzical. “Do you have a recommendation for his replacement?” It seems unlikely - Prowl has doubtless read up on the personnel records of the Earth crew, but he doesn’t know any of these mechs personally. 

“Yes, I do,” Prowl says, and there’s a tone of authority to his voice that had been missing until now. “It’s my recommendation that I be put in charge of Special Operations.”  

Optimus has to reset his audial receptors. He can’t be hearing Prowl right. 

“Have your circuits fried?” Ratchet says, inelegantly echoing Optimus’s own thoughts. “You can’t be head of Tactical and Special Ops!”  

Optimus says nothing, waiting for Prowl to explain. From the corner of his optic,  he notices that Jazz has gone still, whole frame tense.  

Prowl cocks his head. “Why not? Tactical and Special Ops already generally work together more than most other departments. In a complex situation like Earth, where strategies will need to be constantly refined to deal with the threat that Megatron’s personal involvement poses, I can imagine that having the two departments under joint leadership would only be an advantage.” 

“You’re a TacHead though,” Ironhide say bluntly. “What do you know about running a SpecOps division.” 

Prowl inclines his helm slightly. “I have no personal experience. Which is why I also recommend that you keep Jazz as acting Head when it comes to the day to day management of the Department. He’s clearly the most qualified mech for the job, and, frankly, I won’t have the time.” 

“So what would your function be?” Optimus asks. 

“Prime! You can’t be seriously considerin’ this!” 

Optimus ignores Jazz’s outburst, looking at Prowl expectantly.  

Prowl spares only a glance for his bondmate, and whatever is in that look, Optimus can’t read it. “My function would be to keep an optic on things, essentially. Improve accountability. Special Operations are not required to submit full mission briefs or even reports. Understandable, from a security perspective. However, this means they are given an unprecedented amount of leeway. While flexibility in the field is doubtless needed, this can lead to situations spinning out of control. Mechs turn into loose cannons that cannot be controlled." 

The implication that Jazz is such a mech is clear. Optimus finds he cannot disagree.  

“I will leave it up to Jazz to plan missions, but he will be required to run them by me before I will sign off on them. This way, I will be able to evaluate the risk each mission represents, as well as any ethical concerns. In the same way, after each mission, Jazz will be required to fully debrief me on the mission outcome, and how the execution differed from the plan.” 

“Keep him on a short lease,” Ironhide rumbles, and Optimus can hear the soldier’s approval for such a plan. 

“You can’t do this,” Jazz says, shaking his head. He moves in front of Optimus, without sparing a glance for Prowl. “Please, Prime. I know I… I know I fragged up, but you can’t put him in charge. He won’t understand! The decisions I gotta make -” 

“Have perhaps not been the wisest,” Optimus says gently. It hurts him to see Jazz so distressed, but he finds it only convinces him that Prowl is right. Jazz’s emotional nature is part of what Optimus likes about the other mech, but clearly Jazz has been letting his spark rule his processor. “I am sorry, my friend. But I find myself in agreement with Prowl. While I truly believe you have the best intentions, your judgement is not always sound.”  

Jazz's visor flares almost white with distress. 

"I am also to blame," Optimus adds compassionately. "I have not wanted to look too closely at your activities, but that is no excuse. Perhaps if I had been more attentive, this could have been avoided." 

Jazz doesn't say anything, mouth a stubbornly unhappy line.  

Optimus vents sadly. He really has failed Jazz. 

"Prime, this ain't your fault," Ironhide says, shaking his helm.  

"Oh like he'll listen to that," Ratchet says sarcastically. "Optimus likes to feel like he's personally responsible for everything that happens in this war." 

"That is incorrect," Optimus says mildly. "There is much I hold Megatron reasonable for." He looks at Prowl and inclines his helm in assent. "It is agreed. Jazz will report to you, and you will use your judgement to ensure we do not lose our morality in order to win the war." 

There's a blurt of wordless static from Jazz, and the saboteur looks ready to continue arguing. "Let it go," Ratchet says, not unkindly, letting a hand fall onto Jazz's shoulder. After a fraught pause, Jazz's shoulders slump in defeat. 

"Thank you, Prime," Prowl says. "You won't regret this." 

"I do not intend to," Optimus says. "From now on, I expect to be kept aware of what is going on. This is a lot of additional responsibility and I want to be sure you can handle it.”

"Understood." Prowl shifts restlessly. "When can I be discharged?”

Ratchet laughs shortly. “When you can move without rattling.”

Prowl frowns. “I feel fine. And there is a lot of work -”

“I will bolt you to the berth,” Ratchet says testily. 

Prowl’s frown deepens and he turns to Optimus and Ironhide. “He’s not serious?”

“Serious as a rust infection,” Ironhide says. 

“But -” Prowl begins, optics narrowed as he tries to calculate a way out of the medbay. 

Ironhide chuckles and claps a hand on Prowl’s shoulder. “A good strategist knows when he’s beat.”

Optimus tries not to laugh aloud himself at the waves of frustration radiating from Prowl, who clearly isn’t going to be a good patient and comply with Ratchet’s orders. The sight of his new tactical CO attempting to reason with his medical CO makes something deep in his frame loosen in relief. Ironhide catches his optic and grins, before opening a private comm.

>Looks like Prowl’s adjusting.

>So it seems, Optimus responds, daring to hope that Ironhide’s right. He turns to Jazz, intending to try and draw him into the camaraderie, only to find that the spy has vanished, slipped out of the room while he was occupied. >I only hope Jazz will adjust too. 

>Ah, don’t worry about him, Ironhide replies dismissively. >He’s just sulking because you told him off, and putting Prowl in charge means he’ll have to do paperwork like a real officer. 

Optimus tries not to let Jazz’s absence poison his optimism. >I hope you’re right, Ironhide. 

 

Nobody had noticed him slip out of the room. Once outside, Jazz keeps moving, navigating the corridors of the Ark in a route that allows him to reach a little-used exit without running into anyone. Not that his exit won’t be observed; Jazz hadn’t bothered to avoid the security cameras, and he’s sure Red Alert will be watching but it doesn’t matter. He still has the clearance to leave as he likes, and he’s pretty sure that this outing will just be put down as him blowing off steam. The reason he’s sneaking out the back door isn’t because he doesn’t want to get caught, but because he doesn’t want to run into some friendly mech who might ask if he wants company. 

Jazz does not want company. What Jazz wants is tarmac under his wheels, wind on his windshield, and the heat of Earth's yellow Sun on his roof. He wants to not think. He wants to go dangerously fast, at a speed that will leave him a smoking wreck of twisted metal and burning rubber if he loses control for an instant. He wants music, loud and raucous, blaring through his speakers and vibrating through his frame. He wants to not think.  

For a while, he loses himself in the beauty of this alien world. It's a stark, monotonous thing, made up of a vast expanse of blue sky and red sand, both stretching out before him, seemingly unchanging and endless. The road cuts through the colour, black as an oil spill and shimmering in the heat. It feels like he can drive forever, but eventually the desert begins to give way to urban sprawl. Incremental signs of human presence appear; billboards and road signs chart the ever increasing proximity of a town. At the first appearance of a corner store, Jazz turns back. On other days, he might have ventured into the human settlement, but he's in no mood today to observe traffic laws and speed limits, to creep through congestion and cool his engine at crossings.  

He takes the drive back home slower, music playing at a decibel less likely to be have him pulled over for noise violations. The initial surge of emotion that led him outside in the first place has subsided. His head cleared, he’s able to reflect. The plan worked. Jazz's position as head of Special Ops has been preserved, though Jazz isn't naive enough to believe that Prowl made his move entirely for Jazz's benefit. The tactician is more than smart enough to make a play with more than one goal in mind. Time will tell, in Ironhide’s words, how short a leash Prowl plans to keep him on. Jazz’s engine revs, a feral snarl and he shifts up a gear, tires eating up the road. Bring it on, he thinks. Jazz is no one’s well-programmed drone, and nothing, not the sparkbond, not Prowl’s newfound authority can change that.

By the time he gets back to the Ark, he’s almost back to his normal good humour. Jazz transforms a few mechameters from the main entrance, and walks in, nodding cheerily to the mechs on lookout. Another couple of mechs appear round a corner. 

“Back from patrol?” Hound calls. From the looks of it, the scout is just about to head out himself.

“Nah,” Jazz says easily, “Just fancied going out for a spin of the wheels.”

“Ah,” Hound smiles, “I understand, it looks like a beautiful day.”

“Didn’t you have a meeting this morning?” Bumblebee interjects. “What was it about?” The little mech had clearly been accompanying Hound to the entrance, though Jazz suspects he’d also been tagging along in the hopes of running into Jazz. There are certain qualities required to be a  Special Ops mech that Jazz feels Bumblebee is lacking, but curiosity isn’t one of them. Bumblebee would have been aware of this morning’s meeting, and must have noticed Jazz’s subsequent absence from the Ark and put the two together.

“Just Optimus introducing our new bossmech,” Jazz says, keeping his tone casual.

Bumblebee’s optics widen almost comically. “The new bossmech? What do you mean?”

Jazz shrugs. “Prime’s merging Tactical and SpecOps and putting Prowl in charge.”

“What? Why?!” Bumblebee exclaims, and even Hound looks intrigued.

“Uh,” Jazz tilts his helm and pretends to be thinking about it, “Something about actually getting paperwork done, and reports filed .” Jazz makes a face. “‘pparently Prime actually cares about that crud. Don’t see why he’s so keen on makin’ more work for himself, but there you go. Guess you’re gonna have to get used to more deskwork, Bee.”

“Aw,” Bumblebee pouts. Most of his curiosity seems to have been sated by the half-truths, Jazz notes in satisfaction, which means he’s unlikely to dig too deep and uncover any of the other reasons for Prime’s decision. 

“Wow,” Hound says, shaking his head, “No wonder you needed to clear your head.”

“Yeah,” Jazz grimaces, playing up the huffy hurt act, “I was pretty slagged off.” 

“You’re not anymore?” Bumblebee asks, picking up on the past tense, and his expression might be sympathetic, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t suspect Jazz of lying or of hiding things. 

“Eh,” Jazz scuffs a pede, “‘m not happy, but I still get to run missions. This new mech seems like he‘s just gonna be handling the deskwork, an’ better him than me. Bad enough I gotta write reports, I don’t want to have to read them too.”

Bumblebee looks like he can believe that; Jazz is skilled at many things, but sitting still and following proper protocol aren’t on the list. 

“Does Mirage know about this yet?” Hound asks. 

“I don’t think so,” Jazz says, “I was just about to try and track him down to let him know.” 

“Do you want me to ping him,” Hound asks helpfully. “He tends to respond quickly to me.” 

“Don’t we know it,” Jazz says, teasing. Flustered, Hound ducks his helm. “Sure, mech, that’d be real helpful.” 

“Done,” Hound says, clearing his vocaliser. “Now I’d better get going. Are you still coming with me, Bee?”

“Sure thing,” Bumblebee agrees, smiling at Hound’s obvious embarrassment, “Unless there’s anything else you need to tell me, Jazz?”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Jazz says, waving a hand dismissively, “Go for a drive. I’m just telling Raj what I told you.” 

Bumblebee hesitates for a nanoklik, but must be convinced that Jazz is at least being mostly truthful. “Okay, see you later.” 

“See ya,” Jazz says, waving them off. “I’ll say hi to Raj for ya, Hound.”

It’s only a couple of breems later that Mirage arrives, helm turning as he scans the entrance for Hound. Jazz watches in amusement as the look of confusion morphes to one of irritated understanding when the spy finds Jazz instead. 

“You know, you could ping me yourself.”

“Yeah, but this way’s so much faster,” Jazz says, grinning.

Mirage lets out a huffy vent, then leans against the wall beside Jazz.

>So how did the meeting go? Mirage asks without preamble. 

“Hound says hi, by the way.” >Prime’s putting Prowl in charge. He don’t trust my judgement, ‘pparently. 

“I’d rather have heard it from him in person.” >So Prowl’s babysitting? Mirage uses the Earth term disdainfully. >I thought you said you weren't going to let them demote you, Jazz.

Jazz shrugs. “Take your complaints up with your mate, Raj.” >Luckily Prowl’s smart enough to know he can’t do my job. I’m still running the show.

“Why did you get Hound to ping me, anyway?” >So what does him being in charge really mean?

“I wanted to talk to you. Let you know Prime’s decided that as a department we’ve been too unorganised. So there’s a new mech in charge; he’s gonna be handling the paperwork and all that slag, makin’ sure we’re doing things by the book and everything’s over the table.”

>I hate when you use all those Earth idioms, Mirage complains, obviously waiting while his language processors finish searching databases to compile Jazz’s meaning. “Joy. I take it this means we’re all going to have more work to do.” 

“You got it,” Jazz nods. 

“Have you told Bumblebee yet?” >Have you told him about the sparkbond?

“Yep, bumped into him on his way out with Hound.” >No, and I’m not going to. 

“So you’ve told everyone that needs to know about this.” >Are you sure he won’t find out?

“Reckon so.” >Not if you don’t tell him. 

Mirage scoffs over the commlink. >If he can’t find out by himself, then I certainly won’t be telling him. “So was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Think that’s everything for now,” Jazz pushes off the wall. “I’m gonna head back to my quarters, get in some recharge before Prowl’s back on duty.”

“I suppose I’ll go back to the datapad I was reading before you interrupted,” Mirage says, tone implying that this whole ordeal has been a great imposition. 

Jazz chuckles, not at all repentant. “Guess you’ve got nothin’ better to do since Hound won’t be back until next shift.”

Mirage gives him an affronted look which is only partly for show, before flouncing away.

Jazz smiles, then stretches, lettings his optics wander round the entrance until they land on the two mechs standing sentry duty. Bluestreak and Tracks, both notorious gossips. He gives a little start, as if just noticing their presence, before nodding at them with a sheepish expression as he walks by. _Whoops, how silly of him not to check the room._ They were sure to have overheard his conversation with Bee, as well as the carefully orchestrated one he’d had aloud with Mirage. By the end of the day, the publically approved reasons for Prowl’s promotion will be common knowledge onboard the Ark. Humming softly to himself, Jazz makes his way back to his rooms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feels like a lot of writing without a lot actually happening this chapter. Hope this isn't too boring, and makes sense! Thanks to everyone who's reading this fic, and everyone leaving feedback or kudos, it's really appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another action packed chapter full of conversations and paperwork.

Prowl cycles a vent as he marches down the corridor that leads to the Tactical department’s office, doorwings held rigidly at the proper angle and determined to not let so much as a flicker of pain cross his EM field. Ratchet had discharged him less than a joor ago, amidst threats that if Prowl so much as feels a twinge in his cables that he bring himself back to the medbay. Despite the fact that the pain in his circuits definitely qualifies as more than a twinge, Prowl has no intention of returning to the medbot’s ‘tender’ mercies. He simply has too much work to do, and he’s wasted enough time being injured. Of course, if it wasn’t for the sparkbond, he’d still be confined to a berth. The energy boost the spark connection gives him is incredible - Ratchet had explained to him some of the medical mechanics - integrated systems and shared networks - before noticing Prowl’s silently growing horror at the description of how intimately he and Jazz are now linked, and had changed the subject with a tact that Prowl hadn’t suspected the irascible medic of possessing. 

Forcing the bond - and his bondmate - from his mind, Prowl halts in front of the door. There’s a sign next to it that confirms he’s come to the right place, and the access code he’d been given works. If it wasn’t for these facts, the sight that greets his optics as the door slides open would have made him assume he’s in the wrong place.

“Sure you don’t want to raise the stakes?” A blue and red Praxian asks, grinning over the table at a large, dark-coloured bot. With his back to the door, he doesn’t notice Prowl standing in the doorway. 

“Uh,” the other bot’s - Trailbreaker, Prowl thinks, finding a match in his databanks, - optics widen, “I don’t think so, Smokescreen. Actually, I think I’m going to have to quit while I’m ahead.”

“A good move,” Prowl says drily, stepping into the room. 

Smokescreen starts guiltily, doorwings twitching. “Oh! Sorry, sir. I didn’t hear you come in.” The gambling chips and other evidence of illicit activities vanishes, hastily subspaced. “Actually, we, er, didn’t realise you were out of the medbay.”

“So I see,” Prowl says, coolly. “Gambling and consumption of highgrade while on duty are against regulations, aren’t they?”

“Well -” Smokescreen starts, processor clearly working overtime to come up with an excuse. 

“We’re sorry, sir,” Trailbreaker says, nervously. “It’s just  - we weren’t sure we were actually on duty. There hasn’t been an officer in charge since Thundertreads became one with the Allspark.”

Prowl doesn’t talk for a moment, just looks. He finds that generally makes mechs uncomfortable. 

In the silence, he hears the click of someone’s vocaliser booting up, but no words. 

“So since the death of my predecessor, there has been no work done?” he asks, finally. 

“Um,” Trailbreaker begins, then glances over to Smokescreen entreatingly. 

“I wouldn’t say no work,” Smokescreen hedges. 

Prowl manually overrides a vent, and marches over to the desk. There’s a towering, haphazard pile of datapads on top of it. “This looks like no work.” 

Both mechs cringe, and this time Prowl doesn’t bother to stifle his vent. “Never mind. I need to familiarise myself with the current situation anyway, and reading over these reports should help.” Grabbing an armful of the datapads, Prowl dumps them on the now clear table, not bothering to place them carefully since they clearly hadn’t been stacked in any kind of order. “You can help me by reading through some of these reports and summarising any useful information.” Not that Prowl intends to leave this work to the judgment of two mechs he doesn’t yet know, but this will be a good way to gauge their abilities. 

Smokescreen and Trailbreaker look at the piles of datapads covering the table, clearly dismayed. At least neither of them are stupid enough to complain or try and get out of it. 

“Right,” Smokescreen sighs, reaching out for a pad. 

“Suppose we should make a start,” Trailbreaker agrees dolefully. 

Prowl drags over the other chair and gets to work.

 

It’s several joors later before Prowl even looks up from reading. 

“Uh, the workshift finished?” Trailbreaker says hesitantly, somehow turning it into a question.

“Actually, the workshift finished about half an hour ago,” Smokescreen says, tossing a datapad into the ‘read’ pile. He grimaces, and mutters, “Feels longer.”

Trailbreaker shoots Smokescreen a slightly panicky look, clearly worried Prowl going to change his mind about letting the drinking and gambling he’d walked in on go unpunished. “What we’re trying to say is, that is, if it’s okay with you -”

“You’re dismissed,” Prowl says, looking back down to his datapad. When there’s no immediate scramble to leave the room, he looks back up, slightly confused to find Smokescreen and Trailbreaker still there. “Unless you want to stay late?”

“Uh, no thank you,” Trailbreaker says, carefully not looking at the still large stack of pads in the ‘unread’ pile. 

“Ah,” Prowl nods, unsurprised. Not many mechs seem to have the same kind of work ethic as he does. “In which case, I’ll see you at the start of the next workshift.”

“Actually, we were going to ask you if you wanted to come get a cube with us,” Smokescreen says, standing up and stretching. There’s the creak of cables cramped from too long sat in one position, and Prowl realises his own frame feels stiff.

“Your shift is finished too, isn’t it?” Trailbreaker asks. 

“It is,” Prowl acknowledges. 

“So, do you want to come with us? We could give you a tour of the Ark.” Smokescreen’s tone is calculatedly cajoling. 

“The offer is appreciated but unnecessary,” Prowl says, looking back down to his current report in polite dismissal. “I’ll see you next shift.”

“If you’re sure.” There’s the whoosh of the door sliding open, “See you tomorrow then, Prowl.”

The door closes behind them, leaving Prowl in silence. 

 

It’s another joor before Prowl is interrupted again, this time by a flashing warning on his display telling him his fuel levels are low. He cycles his optics and checks his chronometer, surprised to realise so much time has passed. Grudgingly, he accepts that he needs to refuel, and probably rest. His processor feels sluggish from all the data he’s been compiling, and he’s in need of a good, thorough defrag. 

He gets up, taking a moment to stretch. The ache in his struts from earlier hasn’t eased, and the cabling in his back feels tense and tangled. Prowl twists his frame, loosening the cables until the discomfort lessens. He’s still in some pain, but nothing he needs to bother a medic with, especially not that medic, who’ll probably demand he take berthrest instead of prescribing him painblockers. Working overtime, even on something as physically untaxing as paperwork probably isn’t what Ratchet had in mind when he ordered Prowl to take it easy. Prowl frowns at the memory of Ratchet bossing him around like some newframe who hasn’t got his upgrades yet, loftily telling Prowl he doesn’t know his limits. Prowl lets a crackle of irritation out of his vocaliser. He knows his limits, and he knows exactly how far he can push them.

On the way out of the door, Prowl grabs a couple of datapads. He can read them while refueling, after all.

 

“Hey there, lover.”

Prowl pauses, frozen in a doorway and wondering for the second time this orn if he’s got the right room. After a moment, he steps inside, keying the door shut and locked behind him. It wouldn’t do for anyone else to walk by and find Jazz sprawled on Prowl’s berth. That could start talk. “What are you doing here?”

Jazz looks at him from where he’s still laid out on the berth, or at least, Prowl assumes he’s looking at him; the visor makes it hard to tell. “Nothin’. Thought I’d check on you. Haven’t seen you since the meeting.”

“Ah, yes.” Prowl leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his bumper. He feels more at ease suddenly, less ambushed. “The meeting. I remember you running out.” That wipes the lazy grin off of Jazz’s faceplates, and Prowl continues, enjoying the chance to take advantage of the situation. “Perhaps you’re the one who needs checking on. Not having a change of spark, are you?”

“You don’t have to worry ‘bout me, bossmech,” Jazz says, a little sullenly, Prowl thinks, but before he can needle Jazz anymore, the saboteur is rolling off the berth and onto his feet, slinking towards Prowl with a somewhat predatory grace. Nothing Cybertronian should move like that, with almost organic fluidity. It’s… unnerving, Prowl admits privately, feeling backed against the wall.“Why are you here?” he asks, forced back on the defensive. 

Jazz halts, just close enough that his presence feels intrusive. “I told you. Seeing how today went. Seeing how you are.” Jazz lifts a hand almost absently, pressing it to the plating that covers his spark. There’s a vulnerability to the gesture that’s at odds with everything else Jazz has said and done so far. The light in Jazz’s visor dims for a second, his voice lowers in confession. “I needed to know you were all right.” 

Prowl twitches; caught off guard. “You were worried?”

Jazz smiles, unhappily. “I was.” He looks down, visor still dimmed. “I know this ain’t real, but it feels real.”

Prowl finds that he doesn’t know how to respond to that. “I’m fine,” he settles on, brusquely pushing past Jazz  to a desk he spots in the corner of his quarters. 

“You won’t be fine for long if Ratchet finds out you’ve been staying after hours in the office.” Jazz switches topic without missing a beat. 

Prowl pulls out the datapads and carefully stored energon from his subspace. “You won’t tell him.”

“Oh yeah? What makes you so sure of that?” 

Prowl watches Jazz in his peripheral vision as the other mech returns to his sprawl across Prowl’s berth. “Because then you’d have to admit you’d been keeping tabs on me, and I doubt he’d be happy to hear that.” 

Jazz goes quiet, which Prowl takes as Jazz conceding the point.. “Why’d you stay so late anyway? It’s your first day, how much work can you have to do?” 

Prowl can’t stop himself from making a soft noise at that. “I have a new posting, in a new position. I’ve joined in the middle of a campaign based on a relatively unknown world, which, for reasons currently unclear to me, has become a location of significant strategic value to both sides of our war.” He forces himself to pause, aware he’s verging on a rant, and continues in a more level tone. “And if that was not enough, I find I have three cycles worth of backlog in reports because none of my subordinates bothered to actually do any work without an officer.”

Jazz chuckles; clearly Prowl was not successful in keeping the frustration from his tone. “You’re actually bothering to read all those reports? I’d have foisted those off on a subordinate faster’n Red Alert can call the alarm.”

“I’m beginning to wonder how you ever actually made it to officer,” Prowl says drily. 

Jazz’s engine rumbles. “It’s called delegation, thanks for askin’.”

“Hm.” Prowl flicks through his current report. “I don’t know either of the two mechs who seem to compromise my entire department well enough for that.” A thought strikes him and he leans back in his chair, turning just enough that he can see Jazz properly. “Actually, you can help. Tell me what you know about them.”

Jazz rests his helm on a folded arm. “Trailbreaker and Smokescreen, right? Haven’t you read their files?”

“Of course I have,” Prowl says. Not that they’d been particularly helpful. Trailbreaker is listed as a defensive strategist, a broad enough specialism as to be practically meaningless, but at least a specialism he recognises, unlike Smokescreen, who’s categorised as a diversionary strategist, whatever that is supposed to mean. “I want to hear your assessment.”

“Um,” Jazz appears to be giving it some thought. “Well, Trailbreaker makes forcefields, and Smokey lives up to his name.”

Prowl frowns, turning round in his chair to fully face Jazz. “You’re not telling me anything that’s not in their files,” he points out, tersely. “I’m asking you because your job is to gather intelligence, assess a mech’s capabilities, their strengths and their weaknesses.”

Jazz doesn’t even sit up. “Gather intelligence on the enemies, y’mean.”

Prowl crosses his arms over his bumper again, irritated at Jazz’s lack of co-operation. “Tell me what you know. This dumb, incompetent officer act isn’t going to fool me.”

“Heh.” The corners of Jazz’s mouth turn up a little. “Sorry, force of habit. Incompetent is a little harsh though. I prefer unthreatening.” 

“I think incompetent might be more accurate description of how you’re seen by others, taking into account the outcome of this morning’s meeting,” Prowl says, a little sadistically. 

Jazz’s lips turn down in a somewhat exaggerated pout. “Aw, Pit. Good thing that was all according to plan.”

“My plan,” Prowl points out.

“Our plan,” Jazz corrects. 

Prowl doesn’t reply, and Jazz’s lips quirk up again once more, in an annoyingly knowing smile. Prowl doesn’t so much as let his doorwings twitch. So what, if Jazz suspects him of having ulterior motives? That doesn’t mean he won’t co-operate. 

“Trailbreaker is great at coming up with defensive strategies, but can’t plan an offence to save his spark.” Jazz jumps back to Prowl’s earlier question, quick as mercury. “He’s good in the field, a quick thinker, and he can get creative when the situation needs it. His main weakness is he doesn’t like to act without orders.”

“I see,” Prowl nods, absorbing the information. “That could be an issue.”

“Really? I thought you’d like that about him, t’be honest.”

Prowl steeples his fingers and looks at Jazz over them. “Initiative is indispensable in a combat situation.” 

“Well, Smokescreen’s got initiative comin’ out his exhaust pipes. Actually, he’s got magnetised smoke emissions coming out his exhaust, but he’s pretty inventive in how he uses it.” Jazz stretches, lazy and supple, as he continues to run through his evaluation. “He’s also great with people. Knows how to read ‘em, knows how a mech works and knows how to work a mech. He’d make a good Ops agent, until he got himself killed.”

“You think he’d get himself killed?” Prowl asks.

“He’s a gambler, and the odds aren’t always in his favour. An’ the higher the stakes, the riskier his play.”

Prowl nods, taking note. “That is definitely something to be concerned about. Thank you for warning me.”

Jazz shrugs, shoulder tires bouncing. “Hey, it’s my job right?”

“What about your subordinates?” Prowl asks, “What are they like?”

“My mechs?” Jazz’s smile turns evasive. “You’ll meet ‘em soon enough.”

Prowl is about to chase that non-answer up, but before he can Jazz asks, “So those reports. Are they helping you figure out what the situation’s like down here?”

As diversions go, it’s hardly subtle, but it’s still a good question that deserves an answer. Prowl picks up the datapad he’d abandoned on his desk, frowning down at it. “No. Yes. A lot of the reports seem to contain irrelevant information.”

“Who's that report by?” Jazz asks, nodding towards the pad.

“Hound,” Prowl answers. A scout. This report is supposed to be on the advantages and disadvantages of various locations around the Ark as potential future battle sites, but…

“Lemme guess, the report’s about fifty percent Hound’s interestin’ observations about the flora and fauna of this planet.”

“Yes.”

Jazz chuckles again, “He’s a good scout, really. Just gets a bit carried away. Better’n Beachcomber who forgets to file his reports half the time.”

Prowl can feel the beginnings of a processor ache coming on.

“Who’s the other report by?” 

Prowl grimaces. The second report that he hasn’t brought himself to begin yet. “Red Alert.”

Jazz giggles like that’s the punchline. 

Prowl is forced to admit: “He is remarkably thorough.”

“Y’mean his reports are twice the length of everyone else, and twice as dull to read,” Jazz says cheerfully. 

“Some of the potential security precautions he outlines seem reasonable.” Some of them, to be blunt, do not. From the way Jazz has started laughing again, the SpecOps officer is well aware of the Security officer’s foibles. 

“So what have you learnt from the reports?” Jazz asks. “Y’said earlier you didn’t see the strategic value of Earth yet.”

“No,” Prowl admits, a little frustrated. He wasn’t sure what he was missing, but there must be some reason that the frontline has remained on this backwater mudball of a planet. “I’ve read the initial surveys. This planet has plenty of fuel sources that can be easily converted to energon, a useful factor in a battleground, but by no means unique. We’ve found worlds like this one before.”

Jazz bobs his head slowly in agreement. “You’re right. In writing, there’s nothin’ special about this world.”

Prowl narrows his gaze. “So what is different?”

“The humans,” Jazz says simply. 

Prowl checks his audio in case he misheard Jazz. “The natives? What about them?” He brings up the datafiles he’d downloaded on Earth before arriving. Humans; an organic species, currently the dominant Earth species, possessing rudimentary science and technology. He fails to see anything that distinguishes them from the hundreds of primitives species they’ve come into contact with before. Nothing special, in writing. 

Jazz’s visor is a band of unreadable blue. “Prime likes them. We all do really.”

“I don’t understand,” Prowl says. 

Jazz vents, audibly, though Prowl doesn’t think the frustration is directed at him. “What do you think would happen if the Autobots left this planet?”

Prowl doesn’t need even a breem to calculate that scenario. “Once we left, the Decepticons would follow soon after. The war would move to another planet.”

“Not before the Decepticons mined the core of this planet dry for energon, not before Earth was destroyed,” Jazz counters. 

Prowl’s head tilts fractionally. “True. And so?” It sounds cold, but they’re at war. Like he’d said, this world wasn’t unique.

Jazz’s smile is unreadable. “Prime’s decided this world and its peoples are under Autobot protection. Apparently, they’re no longer considered acceptable losses.”

Prowl sits back in his chair, processor working away as he absorbs this information. It takes a good few breems of silent thinking before he manages to adjust to the idea that Earth and the humans are not expendable. Nothing in his logic centres agrees with what Jazz is saying, that the fate of one planet, one species, is more important than doing what is necessary to win the war. He’s forced to overwrite a good number of files full of assumptions he’d had about how the war on Earth would go. “This explains a great deal that was previously incomprehensible to me.”

All those battle reports where the Autobots had won the battle, but failed to follow through on their advantage and go for a final push, all the incidences where an Autobot victory had seemed inevitable, until orders had been given to retreat. Prowl had thought it was simply due to poor judgement and planning, but now he understood it was all done to preserve human life. The Autobots, who in writing were a match for the Decepticons in terms of  numbers and weaponry, were being spread too thin, forced to defend the humans as well as themselves. Whenever the Decepticons attacked a human population centre, whenever they broke into an energy plant, the Autobots came to the rescue. Noble, perhaps, but it left them little time or resources to do anything other than respond to the latest Decepticon threat. Most of the battles and skirmishes between the Autobot and Decepticons were ending in a stalemate or with the Decepticons retreating, there was little in the way of decisive victories for either side, but it didn’t matter. The Decepticons main activity on Earth seemed to be raiding various energy sources, and almost every time they were successful in securing some fuel. The Autobots, on the other hand, while provided enough energon by their human allies to function, had none to spare. 

“What are the Decepticons doing with the fuel they manage to seize and convert to energon?” Prowl asks, despite knowing the answer.

Jazz doesn’t seem at all thrown by the seemingly random question, but then, of course he isn’t. This is why Jazz saved Prowl after all, because he saw the way the war was heading. “They’re sending it back to Cybertron.”

“Where Shockwave is using it for his experiments, and to strengthen the Decepticon forces on Cybertron,” Prowl says, in weary understanding. No wonder Elita-One was reporting increased aggression from the Decepticon units left on Cybertron. The guerilla fighter and her unit had been holding their own against the Decepticons’ superior numbers, but Prowl couldn’t be confident in how long that would continue to be true if Shockwave was regularly receiving extra energon supplies. Prowl’s processor continues its computations, crunching the numbers and calculating probabilities. Somewhere inside him, a fan whirs harder, fighting to cool him down before his processor crashes. “We’re going to lose the war.”

Jazz looks at him seriously, smile gone. “We’re not gonna lose the war. You’re gonna think of a way to save us.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Prowl meets the team.

“So you’re Prowl. I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself before you were hurt.” 

Prowl pauses in the doorway. At this point, he feels like it’s stupid to keep being startled whenever he walks into a room and finds something unexpected, and that he should resign himself to the unpredictable. That's not in his programming however, so as he steps forward into the room, he’s already assessing the situation. “You are Mirage, I assume.” 

The spy inclines his helm. “You assume correctly. Did Jazz tell you about me?” 

“No. I read all of the personnel files for the Earth crew before I arrived.” Prowl scrutinises Mirage, aware that he’s being scrutinised in return. “Is there a reason you sought me out alone, instead of just coming to the meeting I’ve scheduled to start in a half joor?” 

Mirage gives him an enigmatic smile, which Prowl does not return. Prowl doesn’t enjoy mysteries, he enjoys solving them, and SpecOps mechs seem to delight in being deliberately mysterious. It makes getting helpful answers out of any of them an exercise in frustration.  “I thought you and I could have a private conversation.” 

Prowl feels a prickle of unease. “I don’t see what we have to talk about.” He moves over to the table, brusquely brushing past Mirage to remove some datapads from his subspace and place on the table.  

“I know about you and Jazz.” 

Prowl stiffens. Despite himself, his doorwings pull back defensively. “What do you mean?” He tries to keep his voice bland, uninterested.  

“I know about the sparkbond,” Mirage says softly. “I know that’s why Prime has put you in charge of our division.” 

Prowl stays perfectly still. He feels paralysed, as off-balance as if he’d locked up mid-transformation. Finally, he forces his vocaliser to initialise.  “What do you intend to do with this information?” 

There’s no sound to give away movement, but suddenly Mirage’s voice is coming from closer by. “Nothing. I just wanted to check we’re all on the same page. Jazz said you and him had come to an understanding. That you weren’t going to get in the way. I just want to make sure that’s correct.” 

“Are you threatening me?” Prowl asks, carefully. He doesn’t turn to look at Mirage.  

“Do I have to?” Mirage’s voice stays very level. 

“I wouldn’t advise it.” Prowl’s voice is as soft as Mirage’s, with the same hidden edge under the softness. Mirage had nothing on him, nothing he can use, anyway. The sparkbond is a blade that cuts both ways, and using it against Prowl would hurt Jazz in the process. Reassured, Prowl turns round to face Mirage. The spy is standing close enough to him that his auxiliary proximity sensors should have registered his presence. That the other mech was able to get that close without Prowl’s knowledge is disturbing, if not surprising. “I’m not the enemy. I intend to work with Jazz. We have the same goal.” 

Mirage’s lips twist contemptuously. “Just don’t get in our way.” 

Prowl decides to go on the offensive. He takes a step forward, which given the mech’s closeness, places him right inside Mirage’s personal field. Tightly pressed to his plating as it is, Mirage’s field betrays the startle he’s too well trained to make physically. “Do you know why Jazz saved me? Why he sacrificed the unity of his own spark to save mine?” 

Mirage hesitates. Clearly he hadn't thought of a motive beyond the obvious one of altruism, and clearly he knows Jazz well enough to not be satisfied by that explanation, because he keeps quiet.  

“Because he is going to need me,” Prowl answers the question for him, filling in the blanks with the logical answers. There’s no need for intimidation or persuasion to try and sway Mirage, not when the facts are irrefutable. “Because he knows he can’t win this war without me.” 

“You?" Mirage does nothing to mask his incredulity, an aristocratic sneer twisting his faceplate. "You're no one - just the latest officer to get a promotion because your superior wasn't competent enough to not get himself killed. Jazz has been fighting on the frontlines for millennia - he's the best." 

“I’m sure he is, at what he does,” Prowl agrees. “And I am the best at what I do.”  He doesn't allow room for any self-doubt to creep into his tone; it doesn't matter if he's objectively the best mech for this job, it doesn't matter that so far his involvement in the war, while flawless, has been limited in its scope to sideline conflicts and battles where the outcome wouldn't determine that of the whole war - he's the best mech they have left, and that'll have to be good enough. Jazz must have seen enough in his files to have faith in him.

"You almost died before you even got here," Mirage points out. 

Prowl inclines his helm, acknowledging the point. "I was intercepted by Decepticons before I even made it to base. However, that's not my fault so much as it is yours. The Decepticons should not have been aware of my arrival, let alone of my landing co-ordinates. They should definitely have not been there to meet me before the Autobots. As it is, I was able to hold an entire unit of Decepticons at bay long enough for help to arrive."

Mirage gives him a thoughtful look. "I suppose when you look at it from that perspective... perhaps I should be impressed."

"Perhaps you should be," Prowl agrees. He waits, giving Mirage time to think it over, and revise his expectations of Prowl.

"A unit of Decepticons that included Megatron himself," Mirage murmurs, optics spiralling out as he stares, unfocused. "Yes, that certainly is impressive. I was not aware... how long did it take for our response team to arrive to your distress call?"

"Half a joor," Prowl answers, words clipped. Half a joor. It had felt longer than some centuries. 

"Not long."

"Long enough when you're ambushed and outnumbered on unfamiliar ground."

"I suppose." Mirage gives Prowl a look which is half-impressed and half-skeptical. "You held off Megatron for half a joor. Who _are_ you?"

“You’ll have to find out.” Prowl doesn't elaborate, doesn't tell Mirage of the terror and panic of that first half joor on Earth, of how he'd woken disorientated and dizzy from deep space stasis to the hammering of blows on his shuttle door. He doesn't tell Mirage about the fear that had flooded his systems like too much coolant, chilling him to the spark as he watched the shuttle door bend and buckle under the barrage. He doesn't tell Mirage about Megatron, about how the warleader had called to him through the walls, telling Prowl to make it easy on himself and just come out, how his death would be quick and merciful if he'd just stop hiding like a coward and fight. He tells Mirage enough, just enough to make Mirage question his preconceptions, just enough to make Mirage wonder. 

“I suppose I will,” Mirage agrees, optics focusing once more and fixing on Prowl in obvious fascination  

Prowl feels a flash of satisfaction, enough to drive the echoes of Megatron's words out of his processor. It seems like he has managed to impress Mirage, enough at least to not face outright hostility and contempt, if not earn the spy’s respect. That, he can earn in time. He _can_ fight, but he will choose the time and place.

Just as the silence between them is growing uncomfortable long, there's the soft noise of the door sliding open. Jazz, and a yellow minibot who must be Bumblebee stand in the doorway.  Bumblebee's expression is comically startled as he spots Mirage.

“You’re both early,” Prowl greets them tersely. He’s beginning to think he should have expected this.  

“So we are,” Jazz says cheerily. Unlike his subordinate, he doesn't seem surprised at all to find Mirage with Prowl. “Looks like we’re not the only ones.” Not surprised, but also not pleased.

“I can’t believe Mirage got here first,” Bumblebee says, throwing up his hands exasperatedly. “I thought I was going to be the first one here!” 

“So did I,” Jazz says, still looking at Mirage. "Then, what'dya know. I bump into you on the way, and find Raj already here. Someone must have got up real bright and early."

“The early bird gets the worm,” Mirage says, smiling faintly. "Or so Hound says."

"Oh, I'm sure he does," Jazz says sweetly, engine purring.

Mirage's smile turns frosty. 

“I suppose you all have a good reason for wanting to get to this meeting first,” Prowl says dryly, before Jazz can make Mirage completely lose his composure.

The SpecOps mechs all exchange looks which are decidedly not shifty.

“To get the best seat of course,” Jazz says, flashing his dentae in a charming smile.  

“Of course,” Prowl’s tone could suck the moisture out of the air.  

Another _whoosh_ as the door opens once more, saving Prowl from any further explanations from the SpecOps division.  

“Are we late?” Trailbreaker asks, optics comically wide with dismay.  

Smokescreen peers around the bulkier frame of his friend, optics shifting over each of the mechs in the room, before his gaze settles on Prowl. As a fellow Praxian, he can probably read the subtle signs of frustration betrayed by Prowl’s frame. An amused and rather knowing smirk curls his lips.  “Actually, I think they’re early. They must be _eager_ to get to work.” 

“We might as well start now,” Prowl says, over Trailbreaker's disbelieving snort. He takes a seat at the head of the table, a move that seems to grab Bumblebee’s attention. The little mech promptly picks a chair immediately to Prowl’s left, then stares around in interest as everyone else picks a seat, Mirage taking the seat next to Bumblebee, while Trailbreaker and Smokescreen take the other side of the table. Jazz waits until everyone else is seated before taking his place at the end of the table, directly opposite Prowl. Bumblebee’s fascinated gaze immediately switches to Jazz. Prowl can practically hear his processor whirring as he dissects everyone’s seating choices.  

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I called this meeting,” Prowl begins.  

“Well, we figured it was probably to talk to us about Prime putting you in command of both our units,” Smokescreen says, Trailbreaker nodding in agreement. Neither Mirage nor Bumblebee look surprised at the news, which surprises Prowl precisely not one bit, but he hadn’t expected his own department to know yet. 

“I didn’t realise Prime had made his decision public knowledge yet,” Prowl comments neutrally, watching his subordinates. 

“Uh, he hasn’t really said anything,” Trailbreaker says, optics glancing at Jazz before sliding away awkwardly, “we just sorta heard talk that Prime wants Special Operations to be more organised, so we’re helping them out with the paperwork.” There’s a certain leaden gloom to the way he says the word _paperwork_. 

“Heard talk,” Prowl repeats, gaze shifting to Jazz, “I see.” His sparkmate shoots him a cryptic smile. At least this spares him from having to invent excuses for his promotion, Prowl supposes. “The rumours for once are accurate. I am taking over in a mainly administrative function. Jazz will still be leading the actual missions.”  

“So that means we’re not helping out on any missions?” Smokescreen asks, not quite hiding his disappointment. Clearly Jazz isn’t the only one who’d considered a future for Smokescreen in SpecOps.  

“That’s a no, mech,” Jazz says, smiling curling in lazy amusement. “We’re going to do our jobs, and you guys can stick to your deskwork.” 

“Deskwork which is an integral part of the running of any department,” Prowl says, crisply. “Which is why the job of Special Operations will now include filing mission plans and reports.” 

Bumblebee’s groan almost, but doesn’t quite drown out Trailbreaker’s triumphantly hissed _"Yes!"_. 

Unmoved, Prowl picks up one of the datapads he’d placed on the table earlier. “Now, seeing as everyone is up-to-date on the changes in management, we can begin to go over the new duties each department will have, and my expectations when it comes to the execution of these duties. For example, I intend to cover with you what constitutes a good report." 

This time, Bumblebee and Trailbreaker groan in unison.  

"Surely that's unnecessary," Mirage says, hurriedly, sounding no more eager than any of his fellow bots to go through paperwork training. "We've been at war for over four million years, we all know how to write a report." 

"Given yesterday's reading, I find myself in some doubt," Prowl says, thinking grimly of Beachcomber waxing lyrical on the local ecosystems of the sand dunes he'd been scouting. Poetry, he had decided, has no place in paperwork.  

Before he can begin to expand on how to properly write a report, Prowl finds himself interrupted. 

From the suddenly distracted look on everyone's faces, they'd all received the same text communique telling all available mechs to assemble at the main entrance. 

Instantly, Jazz is on his feet, the bored, borderline insolent officer of earlier replaced by a mech suddenly revving with energy. "Prime's summons. Must be Decepticons causing trouble, they've been quiet the last coupla days. We'd better get up there pronto, hear what the scouts have to say, and what Prime wants us doing. Pick up any supplies you need on the way there, but be quick about it." 

Mirage and Bumblebee are on their feet, already moving before Jazz finishes giving his orders, but Trailbreaker and Smokescreen hesitate, looking to Prowl for confirmation.  

He gives a quick nod. "Do as he says. I'll meet you there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long and is relatively short! This was originally part of a longer chapter, but I decided to post it as it is as it was taking a long time to write. Hopefully the next chapter won't take so long as I have a decent portion of it written already now. Thanks to everyone for your comments, I really love reading them, and appreciate any feedback or criticism!


	6. Chapter 6

Jazz had been right on the mark. Prime's summons had been concerning Decepticon activity. A group of 'Cons had been caught breaking into a nuclear power station, their motive for doing so easy enough to guess at. The terrified humans manning the station hadn't been particularly helpful in telling the Autobots which Decepticons they should expect, or even how many, but Red Alert had identified the intruders from satellite imagery and the station's CCTV as the Constructicons. To Prowl's relief, neither Megatron nor Starscream seem to be present on site, but that doesn't mean he can afford to relax. An entire gestalt team is no laughing matter, especially not when mixed with the humans' crude and dangerous power supply.  

The Autobots' first priority, according to Prime, is to stop the plant from being damaged and going into core meltdown. While the plant and surrounding area has been evacuated to prevent the immediate loss of human life, either from the battle, or any potential explosions within the reactor, that won't save the humans from radioactive fallout if the containment building is breached.   

It's a difficult situation; not since the war first broke out has Prowl really had to concern himself with the preservation of civilian lives, let alone with the lives of creatures as fragile as humans. The war had forced every Cybertronian to pick a side or flee to distant star systems, and the other races they'd come into contact with had always been technologically advanced enough to either attempt to defend themselves, or abandon their worlds for safer galaxies. 'Unarmed' has come to mean any mech not carrying enough firepower to outfit what most normal races would consider an army. Limiting the property damage caused by their fighting isn't something either side has even thought about for millenia; not since Cybertron's great cities fell into ruins. And then, even with all the precautions Prowl can put in place to try to prevent the Autobots from getting carried away and destroying the plant in the heat of battle, there's the simple fact that there's no reason for the Decepticons to exercise the same restraint. While an explosion would damage a Cybertronian frame, or even destroy it depending on proximity to the blast, the nuclear fallout that poses the main threat to human life simply isn't a concern for them. There's the possibility that already the Autobots are too late, that the Constructicons methods of energy extraction have already compromised the plant's core, and that meltdown is imminent.   

Prowl forces himself not to speed up as he runs the odds on that particular scenario, remaining just behind Prime on the road as they race to the plant. There's no benefit to him speeding ahead; he will need to be with Prime when they reach the plant, ready to support him in deploying the Autobots. Still, that doesn't mean he has to be totally unprepared for what's ahead.  

>Jazz, has your unit reached the plant?  

>Got here 'bout five minutes ago. What's taking you slowcoaches so long, someone get a flat tire? 

Prowl ignores the banter. >Our ETA is three breems. Power plant is within sight. What's the sitrep? 

>Y'know, you really need to start using local time measurements.  

>Jazz, Prowl growls over the comm, losing patience.  

>All right, all right. Constructicons are all outside, which is good news, since no one wants Bonecrusher next to any materials that can be described as volatile. Bad news, Soundwave's with them. He's the one formatting the nuclear energy into energon cubes for transport.  

>What's the status of the core? Prowl asks tersely. They've drawn closer to the plant while he's been communicating with Jazz. Prime and two frontliners, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker plow through the metal fence prohibiting access to the plant. Not long before they reach the plant itself, and Prowl wants to know what to expect. 

>Raj is on it. Me and Bee are playing distraction with the Constructicons, but if Soundwave's here that means so are his symbiotes.  

Symbiotes which are small enough to be inside the plant itself, meaning that Mirage is going to have to sneak by other mechs who are experts at infiltration without alerting them to get to the control room.  

>How is he doing? Prowl asks. 

>We don't know. He's not gonna break radio silence when Soundwave's on the ground, we can't risk any him noticing any comms coming from inside the plant.  

>So we're going in blind, Prowl says grimly.  

>Hey, no news is good news. If there's an emergency, he'll contact us.  

If he gets to the control room in time, if he doesn't get caught and neutralized by Soundwave's tiny spies. There are more variables here than Prowl is comfortable with, but in real life there's no controlling the conditions. 

>We're here, Prowl says, over the open Autobot channel, as they finally pull around to the front of the power plant. The rev of engines and the noise of blaster fire greets them, a battle already in progress. The Constructicons seem to be entirely occupied trying to catch Jazz and Bumblebee. Fortunately, the two Autobots both have altmodes that are fast and manoeuvrable enough to make up for them being outnumbered.  

"More Autobots!" one of the Constructicons cries, pivoting to fire at them as they pull up.  

>'Bout time, Jazz responds, dodging nimbly past a hulking green and purple con that must be Bonecrusher to rejoin the Autobot ranks. >Me and Bee were beginning to think you'd got lost.  

>I didn't think that, Bumblebee says loyally, swerving wildly to dodge more blaster fire >But I sure am glad to see you guys! I don't know how much longer me and Jazz could have kept that up. 

>Hey, we had it under control, Jazz says, but the scorch marks on his hood belee his cocky tone.  

>Where's Long Haul and Soundwave? Prowl demands, noticing the absence of the Decepticon third in command and the final member of the gestalt team.  

Jazz's tone turns serious. >They're at the other side of the containment structure, loading the energon onto Long Haul. We couldn't draw them out, and we can't take the fight to them without risking damaging the building, so we just left them to it.  

>You made the right call, Prime says, tone calming. >The preservation of life is our highest priority, and we cannot risk the compromising the core. Capturing the energon supply is a secondary concern. Let us fall back while we assess the situation.  

Prowl keeps his thoughts on Prime's priorities to himself as they fall back. The Constructicons don't bother pursuing the Autobots once they're out of blaster range, clearly aware that they don't need to defeat the Autobots in combat to win this battle. >How much energon have the Decepticons managed to procure? 

>Looked like over a hundred cubes, Bumblebee answers, grimacing unhappily  

>Pit!< Wheeljack, the more combat-happy half of the Ark's science team, abruptly joins the conversation. >That's a lot of energon.  

>That would definitely be enough energon to keep the Decepticon's fuelled and armed for a substantial amount of time, Prowl agrees. Certainly enough to provide Megatron with excess that can be exported off-planet. 

>I wasn't worrying about that, I was worrying about what that kind of energy production has done to the reactor, Wheeljack responds. >I doubt the humans have cooling systems that are equipped to deal with the amount of heat being produced. 

>That is not good, Prime says gravely. >Do we know the core's status? 

>Mirage is currently finding that out, Prowl responds. >We haven't heard from him yet.< He doesn't verbalize his unease at the continued lack of word from Mirage; as Jazz says, no news is good, and there's no point alarming the troops.  

>Then we assume the best until we know otherwise, Prime says, firmly. >For now, let us work on drawing the remaining Constructicons away from the plant. That is our best chance to both prevent damage to the plant, and to allow us to reach Soundwave and Long Haul and prevent them from escaping with the energon. Prowl, what are your suggestions? 

Prowl's shoulder struts straighten as expectant optics turn to him, and he answers without hesitation. >We can't risk opening fire on the Constructicons, so we're going to have to stick close range combat. With Long Haul occupied, we don't have to worry about Devastator, but the gestalt bond means we might be able to draw out Long Haul if he feels his teammates in distress.<  

Prime gives an appreciative nod. >Thank you Prowl, your insight is appreciated. 

>Mixmaster and Scavenger are both susceptible to goading, Smokescreen comments. >We might be able to draw them out that way.  

>Good thinking, Prime acknowledges. 

>Hey, when it comes to being a pain in Decepticon aft, we're your mechs, isn't that right Sunny? The frontliner with the red paint job - Sideswipe, Prowl thinks - says brashly, nudging the yellow frontliner.  

>You're a pain in my aft, Sunstreaker growls, shoving back with enough force that his twin stumbles.  

>Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, you can take point, Prime orders, >Everyone else, follow their lead. Remember that our aim is to draw them away from the buildings.  

>Really don't forget the 'away from the buildings' part of the plan, Wheeljack adds warningly. >If the core is in meltdown, then those walls are the only things stopping this place from leaking enough radiation to have our human friends growing extra limbs for generations. 

>Can't make them any uglier, Sunstreaker comments, before yelping as Sideswipe thumps him warningly. >Watch the paint job! 

>Watch your mouth, his twin fires back.  

>Enough, Prime cuts them off. >Save it for the enemy.< "Autobots, roll out!" 

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker don't wait for any further command; the two frontliners are transforming before Optimus has finished speaking, barrelling into the surprised Constructicons.  

"Hey -" Bonecrusher starts speaking, before being knocked down by the combined force of the two brothers. 

The rest of the Autobots take that as their queue, diving into the fray.

Scrapper opens his mouth, perhaps to yell an order, but before he can begin to rally his mechs, Prime is there, swinging a punch. The two leaders begin exchanging blows, metal clanging off metal. 

Prowl stays at a slight remove, not getting himself too heavily involved in any confrontation. He stays back enough that he can keep an eye on all the Constructicons, checking that none of the fighting is getting out of control. So he notices at once when Mixmaster changes tactics in the middle of a clash with Wheeljack. 

The shine of whatever device Wheeljack just pulled out must have caught Mixmaster's attention and triggered the 'Con's paranoia. Wheeljack is known as much for the creativity of his weapons as he is for their effectiveness.

"Oh no, oh no," Mixmaster backs away, hand reaching behind his back, "I think you all need to cool off!" 

>Watch out! Wheeljack calls over the comm, shooting past Prowl to knock Mixmaster to the ground. The hosepipe that the 'Con had been reaching for falls, nozzle spraying a liquid that immediately begins to vaporize on contact with the ground. "Liquid nitrogen!" The scientist pulls back hastily, but Prowl can see the cold burns on his paintwork.  

Before Prowl can go and offer assistance, he's forced to step to the side to avoid being being hit by Sideswipe, who Bonebreaker has just sent sailing through the air.>Careful, Prowl snaps over the comm as Sunstreaker retaliates with a blow that sends the larger 'Con reeling, nearly crashing against the wall of the containment building. >You're supposed to be getting him away from the building.  

>We're... trying... one of the twins snaps.

The next time Prowl looks, Wheeljack is back in the fight, seemingly unhampered by his injuries. Prowl hopes the damage from Mixmaster's liquid nitrogen spray is only cosmetic, but doesn't have time to check in. The battlefield is an environment in constant flux, and he has to fight to stay on top of everything.

>Jazz, where are you and Bumblebee? Prowl asks, turning to scan the battlefield. The distinctive yellow flash of the minibot's paint job is noticeably absent. 

>We went to go check up on Soundwave and the dump truck, see if they've noticed the commotion.  

>I don't recall signing off on that, Prowl says, opening a private commline.  

>Oh, sorry Teach, Jazz replies snidely over the same line, >I didn't realize I had to raise my hand to ask to use the bathroom.  

The words are incomprehensible, but Prowl gets the message. >This isn't about who's in charge, Jazz. This is about me needing to know what's going on.< Prowl takes a little of his frustration out on a passing 'Con, slamming a running Scavenger into the ground. >I'm letting you run things your way, but you don't get to run them behind my back. You keep me in the loop, understand?< He drags Scavenger to his feet and yanks the struggling 'Con backwards, away from the plant. Jazz doesn't answer, but neither does he argue. Somehow, Jazz's lack of response doesn't fill Prowl with confidence that he's being listened to. "Stop fighting," he snaps, backhanding Scavenger across the faceplate. Surprisingly, this seems to work, and the 'Con whimpers meekly before subsiding.  

"Now that's what I call police brutality!" Wheeljack says cheerily. Prowl is glad to see that the inventor seems to somehow have managed to subdue Mixmaster on his own in the time that Prowl was occupied. "Inhibitor device," Wheeljack adds, noticing Prowl's look. "I'd have brought enough to share, but it's uh. Experimental." 

"He means it might explode," Smokescreen adds, appearing by Prowl's side, Trailbreaker just behind him. Apart from a dent in his cheekplate, the diversionary tactician seems to have managed to get through the fighting unhurt. Trailbreaker appears completely unscathed, not even a scratch on his plating.  

"Shouldn't you be fighting?" Prowl asks, frowning at his subordinates. 

"Just taking a minute to check in, boss," Smokescreen says quickly, "And help subdue the prisoners." Trailbreaker gives Prowl a nod before placing a force field around Scavenger. Grudgingly, Prowl has to admit that's not a bad idea. 

 "Do we know what's going on with Soundwave and Long Haul?" Trailbreaker asks. 

"Jazz and Bumblebee are currently checking on them," Prowl says, as smoothly as if they'd acted on his orders. >Jazz, report in. Are they reacting to the fighting?  

>Actually, Soundwave just stopped loading the cubes - not sure why, he'd been ignoring Long Haul's whinin' up until now, but - 

Jazz's report is interrupted by a sudden burst of static, and then Mirage is on the commline, the spy's normally refined voice rough with panic.  

>Jazz, they spotted me - the Cassettes - I was trying to get to the control room and there was no other way - ! 

>Calm down, mech, Jazz says, cutting Mirage off before he can get too hysterical. >Now tell us what happened. 

>There's no time, Mirage says urgently. >When Rumble saw me, he went berserk, he transformed his arms and - 

>Oh no, Bumblebee whispers, horrorstruck. 

>I don't know what he did, but there's steam everywhere, and I don't know if the walls are still sealed, Mirage finishes, frantic. >I don't know what to do. 

>Get out, Jazz begins but Prowl cuts him off. 

>No. Stay put for now. I'm getting Wheeljack on this line, and you need to tell him what's going on in there. 

>You'd better know what you're doing here, Jazz says, reopening their private channel. >Raj is one of my best operatives, an' a friend.  

Prowl hopes he does. Quickly, he fills Wheeljack in on the situation. By the end of his explanation, the engineer's optics are wide, his audial fins flashing in alarm.  

"That's not good," the engineer says. "That's - that's really not good." 

"Yes, I had realised that," Prowl says tersely, "Any suggestions on how to fix it?" 

If it's possible, Wheeljack's optics grow wider for an instant. "Well - I - I mean. I can't say without seeing how bad the damage is!" 

"I'm working on it, for now you're just going to have to work with what Mirage can tell you," Prowl says. "You're just going to have to deal," he adds ruthlessly, when it looks like Wheeljack is going to protest. 

Wheeljack's fins flash in a complex pattern, as if he's fighting back a retort, before he answers. "It definitely sounding like the cooling systems are slag, even if they weren't already, so unless something's done to stop it, the core's going to go into imminent meltdown. There's a definite risk of a steam explosion and other not-good-very-bad stuff." 

"How do we stop this?" Prowl demands calmly. He doesn't think about Mirage, right at the epicenter of any potential explosions.  

This time Wheeljack doesn't mute himself, letting out a high pitched whine of irritation. "I don't know!  I need to see what's going on, because no offense to Mirage, but he's not exactly a qualified nuclear physicist!" 

"I'm working on it," Prowl says, relentlessly. 

"Yeah?" Wheeljack snaps. "Well, you might want to hurry up. We don't have time." The engineer paces. "If we could just find some way to contain the core long enough to cool everything down, and lower the pressure without releasing radiation into the air, then we might be all right." 

"Contain the core?" Prowl says, focusing. 

"Yeah," Wheeljack says, still pacing. "If I had my lab, and Perceptor, I could probably whip something up, but -" he shrugs helplessly. 

Prowl looks at Trailbreaker, consideringly. "How large can you make your forcefields? And how long can you sustain them?" 

"Oh no," Trailbreaker says, shaking his head, but not in refusal. "I see where you're going with this." 

"Oh yes," Wheeljack says slowly, turning to stare at Trailbreaker, "That, that could work."

>Jazz, we need to get Trailbreaker and Wheeljack inside the building. I need you to figure out a way to stop Soundwave and Long Haul from causing any trouble, Prowl says over the comm. 

>They're not going to be an issue, Jazz says. >Looks like they're leaving. They got what they came for. 

>Long Haul's leaving without his gestalt? Smokescreen asks, sounding surprised. >Wow, that's cold.  

>It's good news for us, Prowl says, refusing to focus on what that energon stockpile might mean for Shockwave's experiments. >Now get in there. We don't know how much time we have. 

>Yes, hurry for Primus's sake! Mirage is almost wailing, dignity lost. >I don't want to die on this - this mudball! 

>We won't let you die, mech, Jazz says, >I wouldn't want to have to break the bad news to Hound.  

>Jazz! Mirage admonishes, but his voice sounds a little less shaky.  

>I'd better let Prime know what's going on, Prowl says privately to Jazz. 

There's a noise that might be laughter. >You haven't told him? Yeah, good luck with that, mech. 

Prowl allows his doorwings to twitch once with annoyance. Jazz is right, much as it pains Prowl to admit it. Prime is not going to be pleased at having been left out of the loop. A noise that is definitely laughter buzzes in his ears. >Guess you being in charge means you get to take the flak, Jazz says, teasingly. >That's gonna make a nice change. 

Engine growling, Prowl cuts the commlink between them. Even then, the memory of Jazz's low chuckle still buzzes in his processor as he sends Prime a ping for his attention.

 


	7. Chapter 7

“Gotta say, you impressed me today.” 

Prowl doesn’t bother arguing as Jazz follows him to his quarters, just wearily hits his password into the keypad and lets them both in. “I’m not sure how,” he says, lowering the brightness of the room’s lights until he finds a light level that doesn’t make his optic feels like they’re melting out of his helm. “As far as I’m concerned, today was a disaster.” 

Jazz makes a beeline to Prowl’s berth, throwing himself facedown into a graceless sprawl. “Not s’far as Prime’s concerned.” Is the slightly muffled response. Lifting his head briefly to shoot Prowl a sly grin, Jazz continues, “You’re a big damn hero in his opinion.” 

Prowl snorts, unamused. Jazz laughs, a flash of white dentae, then drops his head again. “You and I both know today was a complete failure,” Prowl says, idly watching Jazz as he stretches. “We failed to stop Soundwave from escaping with the energon, and we nearly weren’t fast enough to stop the reactor from going into meltdown.” 

“Nearly bein’ the operative word,” Jazz says, rolling onto his back. “And we might not have caught Soundwave, but we did capture most of a gestalt team.” 

“Yes.” Prowl leans back in his chair, contemplating that. “What’s going to happen to them?” 

“Hmm.” Jazz considers, tipping his helm to the side thoughtfully. “Prob’ly get traded back when Megatron remembers he needs ‘em and takes a city hostage or something.” 

Prowl lets a growl rumble through his engine at that. “So we’ve accomplished nothing,” he says, disgusted.  

Jazz hums noncommittally, wriggling forward on the berth until his helm’s hanging off the edge. “Wouldn’t say that.” A flash of dentae again, though this time it feels less like a grin and more like a threat. “I get to… talk to ‘em first.” 

“Well, at least Prime’s not a complete -” Prowl cuts himself off, before he can say something traitorous. A rare feeling of shame rises inside him, intensified by the sudden stillness of Jazz on the berth. 

Jazz sits up slowly. “He’s not a bad leader, y’know.” His voice is quieter than it normally is, filled with a strange urgency. It feels less like an act than anything Prowl has seen from Jazz so far. 

“I know.” Prowl does. “That’s why I don’t understand why -” he clenches his jaw, refusing to say more. 

“He’s a good mech.” Jazz says, soft and insistent. “Not like -” Not like us. He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. “He’s a good mech,” Jazz says, again. “An’ it’s hard to be a good mech and a good leader sometimes.” 

Prowl doesn’t let it hurt him that Jazz can tell so easily that Prowl is no longer a good mech. He knows, he knows the things that he has done, the things that he has ordered done. The energon on his hands. Everytime he calculates how many his plans will kill, how many will die to fulfil the objective, he knows. He has sent countless mechs to their deaths to secure a single Decepticon ship, spent countless lives holding ground on some distant, nameless planet. And he does not regret a single death. Not if it will win them the war.  

And Prime. All these things done in his name, yet somehow they do not stain him. Prowl looks at him, and even in his anger and frustration, he sees something good. Sometimes... he looks at Prime and feels regret. That’s something he can’t afford to feel. “Perhaps we need him to be a good leader more than we need him to be a good mech.” 

Jazz shakes his helm. “No. We need him, for when the war’s over. To lead us in peace. We’ve been at war so long, some of us have forgotten how to be anything but soldiers.”  

Prowl tilts his head, not accepting Jazz’s reasoning, but not dismissing it entirely either. “First we need to win the war.” 

"We do," Jazz agrees. He slips off the bed, moves soundlessly to Prowl's side."We'll think of something, Prowler, don't you worry." He lifts a hand as if to touch Prowl's shoulder.

Prowl narrows his optics at the pet name and reaches out to grab Jazz's wrist before he can touch. "What are you doing?" 

"Don't know," Jazz admits, grinning. "Going with the flow." He doesn't make any move to break Prowl's grip, though Prowl had no doubt he could if he wanted. He tightens his grip, increasing the pressure until it's painful. Jazz still doesn't pull away. 

"This is the bond, not you." Prowl should push Jazz away, break the contact, but his fingers feel strangely unwilling to obey him. "We don't have to do this." 

"Don't have to," Jazz agrees, leaning tantalizingly closer, so that Prowl can feel the warmth of his systems, "but we could." 

"You don't know me." 

"I don't." Jazz moves closer. "But I like what I see. I could get to know you."  

"Mechs generally don't like me. I see no reason for you to be an exception," Prowl says quietly. He pulls Jazz closer, noting with satisfaction the faint hitch in Jazz's ventilations, the slight parting of his lips. At least Prowl is not the only one affected. He toys with the temptation of taking Jazz up on his offer for a moment. He has no doubt it would be an enjoyable experience, because of the bond, if for no other reason. Regretfully, he rejects the idea as a bad one. "Jazz?" 

"Hmm?" Jazz is close enough now that if Prowl just leant in a little more they could kiss, close enough he can feel the warmth of each ex-vent. 

"Get out of my room." 

"Aw, you're no fun." Jazz pulls away, tone slipping from flirtatious to just teasing in less than an instant.  

"That's what they say," Prowl replies, amused despite himself. "I'll see you tomorrow, in the office. 

"All work and no play..." Jazz pauses by the door. "Remember, I've got some 'Cons to talk to tomorrow." 

"I remember." Prowl leans back in his chair, amusement slipping away. "Were you planning on telling me what information you were hoping to extract from them?" 

"Not this slag again," Jazz mutters in disgust. "Thought we'd agreed I'd handle the real Spec Ops work."  

"We did," Prowl says, narrowing his optics at Jazz. "We also agreed we'd work together." 

Evidently giving up on making a quick getaway, Jazz leans back against Prowl's door, arms folded across his bumper. Every line of his body screams uncooperative. "So what? You plannin' on comin' and givin' me a hand makin' these 'Cons talk? Or you just gonna second guess me and ask for a blow-by-blow account 'cause you don't trust me not to frag it up?" 

Prowl doesn't let himself respond to Jazz's sudden aggression. Wearily, he wonders how they got from Jazz trying to seduce him to here. If only the bond made it easier for them to work together, instead of making them want to sleep together. "I wasn't planning on joining you," he says, deliberately mild. "I have little practice with the more forceful methods of interrogation. As for trusting you, I still barely know you." 

Jazz opens his mouth, but Prowl doesn't pause. "Which is not the reason I'm asking you to tell me what you're doing. I might not know your capabilities, but I will put my faith in them, the same way I do for every other officer I'm working with. I will trust you to do your job, but you have to help me do mine." 

Jazz's mouth is still a stubborn line. "Sounds like when you told Optimus you were gonna have me reporting in, you weren't lying." 

Prowl doesn't say anything. 

Jazz looks away, engine growling. "Sounds like you've got me right where you want me." 

Prowl stiffens a little at that. "Remember you're the one who put me in this position," he points out, voice dangerously soft. "I'm just trying to make the best of this." 

"Yeah?" Jazz bares his dentae in a humourless grin. "Looks like it's working out pretty well for you." 

Prowl watches him expressionlessly. "You want to win this war. So do I. Don't think I won't do whatever I think necessary to achieve that." He turns back to his desk, finished with the conversation.  

"Y'know, you're right. I don't like you." 

Prowl doesn't respond. A moment later, he hears the door slide open and shut as Jazz leaves. It's only as Prowl's getting ready for recharge that he remembers he still hadn't found out what information Jazz is hoping to get from the Constructicons.

 

"You impressed me yesterday." 

"Thank you, sir." 

Prime's optics narrow just a little in the way that Prowl is coming to learn means he's unhappy about something. "You can call me Optimus, you know. We're not so formal here."  

Prowl doesn't quite know what to say to that, other than, "I'd noticed." And that could be taken as a criticism on the way Prime runs the Earth base. Informal is certainly one way of describing it. On his way to meet Prime, he'd noticed at least thirteen different infractions of various rules, and that's before he'd run into the twins. Or rather, before they'd almost run him down.  

"Whoa! Out the way!" 

That'd been all the warning he'd got before nearly getting flattened by the pair of Lamborghinis. "Racing in the hallways is prohibited," he'd said, pushing himself away from the wall he'd been knocked into. "You two could have hurt someone." 

"We were in a rush," Sideswipe had said, defensively. "And no one got hurt. Didn't even scratch your paint." 

"Besides," his twin had added, voice dripping arrogant confidence, "What are you going to do? Throw us in the brig?" 

They hadn't looked quite so cocky when Prowl had told them that's exactly what he would do, the next time he caught them going over the hallway speed limit. Prowl wonders absently how long it'll be before he gets a reputation on this base.

Prime's still looking at him expectantly, Prowl realises. "Thank you... Optimus." 

The concession seems to please Prime. "And how are you settling in, Prowl?" 

This feels perilously close to small talk. Prowl wonders if he can just hand Prime the datapad collecting his department's reports on yesterday's incident and leave, then decides that would be rude. "Well," he says, stiltedly. "I have a lot to look over and familiarize myself with... as you say, Earth is different to any outpost I've served on before." 

"And your staff?" Prime questions. "They're not giving you any trouble?" 

Prowl shakes his head. "Trailbreaker and Smokescreen both seem like competent workers." 

"I was also referring to Special Operations. How are you finding working with them?" 

Prowl thinks of Bumblebee's friendly prying, Mirage's covert threats, and the way Jazz seems determined to ignore or undermine his authority. "It's going as well as can be expected." 

Prime nods. "Do you need me to step in?" 

"No," Prowl says. "It's under control. A period of adjustment is to be expected." 

"Yes," Prime agrees. "Speaking of adjustment, you seem to be adjusting to Earth very well. You took control of the situation at the nuclear station yesterday quite admirably." 

"Thank you," Prowl says, guardedly. He hesitates, wondering if this is when Prime finally reprimands him for yesterday. As of yet, nothing has been said about Prowl having left Prime out of the loop when it came to handling the potential crisis with the core. "I did not mean to overstep. I know I did not keep you as well-informed as perhaps I should have." 

"You did not overstep," Prime says, in a reassuring tone. "Given the time-sensitive nature of the problem, you did the right thing." 

"Thank you, sir - Optimus," Prowl corrects himself, relieved. 

"Yes. I was very pleased by the way you followed my orders to prioritize the safety of the humans over capturing the energon or detaining the Decepticons. I know to do so must have been hard for you, must have seemed contrary to your prior experience in fighting battles on populated planets." Optimus looks at Prowl, optics bright and knowing.  

Prowl feels abruptly transparent, like Prime can read the doubts that had been running through his processor. He wonders how he and Jazz ever hoped to hide anything from someone who looks at a mech like he can see straight to their spark.  

Optimus doesn't seem to expect Prowl to say anything, since he just continues speaking. "I don't expect you to understand yet why I have changed our rules of warfare since landing here on Earth, but I do expect you to respect that I have declared the humans and this planet under our protection." 

This time, the pause Prime leaves seems to require a response. Prowl jerks his head in a nod. "I understand." 

Again, those bright optics regard him for a moment. "I don't think you do, to be honest. But I will trust you to obey my orders." 

Prowl meets Prime's gaze unflinchingly. "Yes sir." 

"Good." Prime's shoulders slump just a little, like perhaps he'd been expecting to have to fight Prowl on that. If Jazz hadn't got to Prowl already, he probably would have. As it is, Prowl just nods, then hands over the datapad with the reports. 

"Is that all you wanted to speak with me about, sir?" Prowl says, ready to leave. Jazz should be finished with his interrogations by now, and Prowl wants to make sure to catch him.  

"Hmm?" Prime turns from the bank of monitors displaying various human news broadcasts. "Yes, that's all. Unless there's anything you wanted to talk to me about?" There's nothing in his tone or behaviour to suggest he isn't convinced by Prowl's promise, that he suspects him. A little of the tension holding Prowl's cables taut eases.

"No," Prowl says. "There's nothing I need to ask." 


	8. Chapter 8

“What are you doing here?” 

Prowl comes to a stop. “I could ask you the same question.” 

Mirage doesn’t look particularly pleased to see him, anymore than Prowl is happy to see Mirage, waiting by the wash racks outside the ‘interview’ rooms. Prowl had been hoping to catch Jazz alone.  

“Well, I think it’s fairly obvious why we’re both here,” Mirage says with a sigh. “Shall we stop dancing around? Jazz didn’t show up to the office this morning, and since you didn’t seem annoyed at his absence, and I remembered that we had some prisoners in the brig, I realised he’d be here.” 

“And you came to see how he was getting on just out of concern?” Prowl asks, tilting his helm. “That’s… touching.”  

Mirage scowls, aristocratic features made momentarily ugly, before hiding his irritation. “Is that so hard to believe?” 

“Frankly? Yes.”  

“Maybe I came to give him a hand,” Mirage snaps.  

“Or maybe you came to find out what information he’s managed to extract.” Prowl raises an optical ridge. “That sounds like plausible motive.” 

Mirage vents huffily. “I suppose you want me to leave. Fine. But Prowl? Go easy on him. Whether you believe it or not, I was checking on him. Interrogation might be part of his job, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy for him.” 

Prowl covers his surprise. He hadn’t taken Mirage for the caring type. The show of concern seems out of character, but perhaps Prowl is being uncharitable. “Noted. I’ll make sure he’s okay.” 

Mirage nods, then shoots him a knowing, superior smile. “I’m sure you will. After all, Jazz is your concern now, isn’t he?”  

The spy leaves before Prowl can formulate a response to that.  

Prowl takes a moment to regroup. Sending Mirage away was definitely the right move, he thinks wryly, the spy proves that a little knowledge can be a dangerous weapon.  

Hopefully Jazz has found him a little knowledge of his own.  

Prowl makes one more attempt to ping Jazz's comm, but the message just bounces. Jazz must still have his internal communication systems offline from the interrogation, so there's no way for Prowl to warn him before coming in. Perhaps it's for the best; if Jazz isn't expecting him, he might not be on the defensive. He enters the override code for the wash rack for then lets himself in. 

 

"You're not Raj."  

"No," Prowl agrees, leaning back against the wall and regarding Jazz. The saboteur is standing under the spray of solvent like he's been stood there for a while, and he shows no sign of moving, despite the fact that there's no visible dirt on his plating. Even his visor seems to glow a dull, faded blue. Mirage hasn't been lying when he'd said interrogation was hard on Jazz. 

"You really gonna take advantage of me right now?" Jazz shoots him a lopsided grin. "Maybe I should have taken you into the interrogation with me." 

"Hmm," Prowl keeps his tone neutral. He pushes off the wall, moves towards Jazz. 

"What are you doing?" Jazz takes a half step back, stance turning wary. 

"Helping you," Prowl takes another step towards Jazz, adding belatedly, "if you'll let me." 

Jazz doesn't take another step back, but he still looks tense, plating held tight against him. "Why?" 

Prowl sorts through the possible answers. Because he wants to. Because Jazz needs help. Because the bond wants him to. He settles on the most innocuous reason. He doubts Jazz will believe him whatever he says. "I told Mirage I'd look after you." 

"Did Mirage tell you I needed lookin' after? Heh, I'll have to get him back for that." Jazz goes quiet as Prowl approaches, but allows him to turn off the solvent spray and fetch the towels. 

For a moment, they don't talk. Prowl concentrates on drying Jazz off, rubbing the towel in soothing circles over his plating. There's a discomfort to the task. Prowl feels an edge of distaste at the intimacy of the gesture, as well as a guilty thrill of pleasure at being this close to his bonded. He keeps the touch chaste however, an action meant to relax rather than arouse.  

It seems to work. After a breem or so, Jazz's plating loosens, and he leans into Prowl's touch.  

"So," Prowl says eventually, "how did the interrogation go?" 

"Pretty good," Jazz says, voice a low and lazy rumble that Prowl can feel as much as hear. "Found out some interestin' things." 

"Oh?"  

"Yeah. Did you know the Constructicons have been going back to Cybertron?" 

Prowl's hand still momentarily in their movements. "No. I was not aware they were. Why?" 

"Mm." Jazz elbows him until Prowl obliges with the toweling. "Turns out they've been helping Shockwave build things for his experiments."  

"That _is_ interesting. What kind of things? Weapons?"  

"No. This is where it gets really interestin'. 'pparently Shockwave is tryin' to build an energon generator." 

"Oh?" Prowl carefully wipes the last of the moisture from Jazz's back panels. "Is he trying to increase the percent yield of the energon conversion process?" 

"No," Jazz shakes his helm, the twists to face Prowl. "I think they're sayin' he's trying to create a renewable energon source." 

That gets Prowl's attention. 

Energon is food, fuel, ammunition. More than that, it's part of the fundamental makeup of the Cybertronian body, and a resource that as far as they knew only occurred naturally on Cybertron. Or _had_ occurred naturally on Cybertron. The war led to such an increased demand for energon that it had become impossible to harvest enough using sustainable methods, and over the course of a few brief centuries, the entire planet's stores of energon had been depleted. 

Perhaps that should have been the end of the war. Faced with extinction, surely the two sides could have found common ground, have united together as Cybertronians to face the problem. But it was not to be. Instead, they'd taken their war to the stars. Energon might still have yet to be found on alien planets, but they'd found ways to create useable substitutes. And so the war went on, both sides handicapped by the energon shortness, both sides running on substandard fuel types, both sides low on ammunition and without the resources to dedicate to research. Scientific and technological developments stagnated. Both sides existed in an uncomfortable equilibrium. 

But now that balance might be disturbed. If Jazz's information is correct, then soon the Decepticons might no longer be reliant on only what energon they can steal from under the Autobot's optics. The Decepticons might soon have a reliable and abundant energon source, while the Autobots remain dependant on the generosity of the humans. Dependant and doomed.

"Hey Prowl. Prowl!"  

Jazz's voice brings him back to himself. Abruptly, Prowl realises he's been frozen in place for the last few breems, processor generating possible  outcomes for the war if the Decepticons really have found a way to generate energon without needing other sources of energy. He doesn't need his TacNet to know that the outcome would fall into the worst case scenario pile. Prowl's needs more data. "Jazz, can you question the Constructions further?"  

Jazz tilts his helm to one side. "I'm not gonna get anything else useful out of them, Prowl."  

"Use enhanced techniques if you have to, I don't care."  

"Won't work, Prowl."  

"Listen," Prowl ignores him. "I know this is hard on you, but you have to do it. I'll take the fall, whatever Prime has to say, it's on me. Jazz -" 

"I'm tellin' ya. Won't work." Jazz cuts him off, firmly but not unkind. "They don't know anythin' else, Prowl. They're builders. Mixmaster and Hook knew enough to recognize what Shockwave is tryin; but not enough to explain if or how it'll work. You'd need a bot like Jack or Percy for that."  

Prowl bows his head, submitting to Jazz's experience. He had known it was useless before he'd even asked, really. He didn't believe Jazz would have walked out of that interrogation room without every drop of information he could squeeze out of the Cons. "This is a disaster." 

"Hey." Now it's Jazz's turn to play the role of comforter. His voice is coaxing, low. "We don't know that. Who knows if Shockwave is gettin anywhere? No one's been able to come up with a workin' solution to the energon problem in all the millenia since Cybertron was mined dry." 

"Perhaps because all our scientists and engineers have been focused on nothing more than building weapons for this war - or getting killed in it." Prowl shakes his head. "No. If any mech could do it, it's Shockwave. Even before the last energon mines were officially closed, I heard he was researching it."  

"You're right." Jazz drops the optimistic act. "Shockwave might be a pompous aft, but he's also a genius." 

"We have to tell Prime." 

Jazz snorts. "What d'you think he's gonna do about it?"  

Prowl frowns. The cynicism in Jazz's tone is jarring after his earlier defense of Prime as a leader. "If we explain what we suspect is happening, Prime will have to agree that stopping the Decepticons from securing enough energon to send supplies offworld is a top priority, over that of protecting the humans, or this planet." 

"Are you sure that's what will happen?" Jazz asks, head cocked to the side.  

"It has to be," Prowl says flatly. "We can't let Shockwave succeed." 

"You really think Prime's gonna just give up on this planet, on its people, when he's said they're under his protection? Without any evidence that Shockwave has a chance of succeeding?" Jazz shakes his head. "He won't do it, Prowl." 

Prowl clenches his jaw, metal grinding against metal. "What about our planet," he demands, "our people?" 

Jazz just looks at him.  

After a klik, Prowl masters his anger, discards it as a useless emotion. "What do we do?" 

Jazz smiles. "I was wonderin' when you were gonna ask." There's a gleam in his visor. "I got a plan. I just need you to sell it to Prime." 

Prowl raises an optical ridge. "Let's hear this plan."  

"You send me in. I sneak through the Decepticon's space bridge, over to Shockwave's laboratory, an' we find out what he's been up to. Then, sabotage. An explosion, maybe some hacking into ol' mono-optic's research files, an' then I get the hell out of Dodge." 

"You make it sound so easy," Prowl says drily, ignoring the Earth reference which sails right over his chevron.  

Jazz splays his hands and grins cockily. "I am the Meister."  

Prowl scrutinizes Jazz. He looks almost unrecognizable from the sparkweary mech of early, the familiar gleam back in his visor and poise to his posture. "Even if you destroy his files and any prototypes, that won't stop him forever, just delay him. He can rebuild." 

Jazz shrugs. "It'll buy us some time." 

Prowl cycles a vent. "You'll need to submit a mission brief. I'm going to need more details than just 'sneak in and blow stuff up.'"  

Jazz's grin widens. "So, you're in?" 

"Yes," Prowl agrees reluctantly, tossing the towel into the wash chute. "Since I don't have any better ideas. I don't like it though; this is a lot of risk just to buy some time." 

Jazz shrugs. "Desperate times. You don't like it, do what you do best. Figure out a way we can pull this plan off without me getting totally slagged in the process."  

Prowl nods, processor already working on it. "I have some ideas."  

"I'm gonna need to talk this through with Raj and Bee too," Jazz says. "It's gonna take all of us to pull this off." 

Prowl nods. "Talk to them about it, but keep it quiet. I don't want this spreading around base. I need to plan how to broach this with Prime and I don't want him hearing about this from secondhand sources."  

"Will do," Jazz salutes lazily.  

Despite the flippancy of the gesture, it doesn't escape Prowl that Jazz is actually agreeing to work with him. Perhaps, he thinks, perhaps they can make this work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left feedback, it is greatly appreciated and really motivates me to write this.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkward conversations ahead!

"You two were in the washracks for a long time..." 

"We were talking." 

"Of course you were." Mirage gives Jazz a look, smug like only a mech of his aristocratic background can. "Was it a good talk?" 

Jazz refuses to let Mirage fluster him. He leans back in the chair of his own berthroom and grins. "It was, actually. Very... satisfying." He loads the last word with emphasis, heavy on the implications. That should leave Mirage wondering.   

It works. Mirage gives him an uncertain look.  

Jazz smiles to himself; it's good to keep Raj guessing, keep him busy sneaking after secrets that don't matter and out of Jazz's private business. Jazz has decided that he considers Prowl his private business.  

"So, how did the interrogation sessions go?" Mirage says, clearly deciding he doesn't want to know any more details of what went on in the wash racks. "What did you find out?" 

"I'll tell you when Bee gets here." 

"Bumblebee?" Mirage cocks his helm. "You're getting him in too?" 

"I'm gonna need both of you two on this," Jazz says, getting up. "It's gonna be a difficult mission to pull off." 

"A mission? Does Prowl know about this?" 

Jazz pauses, turning to face Mirage for the full dramatic effect. "Does he know?" He places a hand over his spark, affecting a shocked look. "Why, Raj, are you insinuatin' that I'd do something underhand like go behind the boss's back? I'm hurt." He turns back and resumes the scan he'd been running to check his room for bugs. It's unlikely that any Decepticon spies would have been able to make it here, but there's always the chance that Red Alert's gotten a little overzealous. "This is a hundred percent Prowl approved." 

"Really?" Mirage sounds skeptical. "That's why you're busy making sure Security can't listen in to this little conversation." 

"Prowl doesn't want Prime finding out about this mission from anyone but him." 

"But yet you're bringing Bumblebee in on this," Mirage points out. "You know that means Prime will know by the end of the day." 

"I know. But I don't have much choice. Anyway, if I can sell the mission to Bee, he can sell it to Prime better than Prowl can." 

"Devious," Mirage says approvingly. 

The door's control panel lights up.  

"That's him," Jazz says, heading over to the panel and hitting the unlock button. The door slides open. 

"What's going on, guys?" Bumblebee peers around Jazz's quarters. 

"Come on in, and I'll tell ya all about it."  

"Where's everyone else?" Bumblebee perches on the edge of Jazz's berth, pedes swinging off the floor. "Or is it just us?" 

"Just us, for now," Jazz says, sitting back down. "Like old times." 

Bee's optics widen and he looks from Jazz to Mirage. "What are we planning?" 

 

"The door's open. That means you can come in, you know." 

A little embarrassed, Prowl steps inside the medbay. "I wasn't sure if you were busy." 

Ratchet glances up from the computer monitor he's been working at for the last quarter joor that Prowl's been watching. "I'm always busy. But if you need to talk to me, I'll make time." 

"Thank you." Prowl takes the seat across from Ratchet's desk.  

"So? What's the problem? Are any of your repairs not taking?" 

"No," Prowl shakes his head. "The repairs are fine. I am well." It's surprisingly hard to being to broach the topic he'd come to talk about, even knowing that Ratchet knows.  

Ratchet looks up, blue optics piercing. "Hmph. Your paint is looking a little dull to me." He gets up before Prowl can say anything, moving round the table to examine him. 

"It's fine. I just haven't gotten round to waxing recently."  

Ratchet's engine makes a grumbling noise. "You should. Waxing isn't just for vain mechs like Tracks and Sunstreaker, it's the first line of defense against things like rust. If you need someone to help with any hard to reach spots, you can ask a friend or come here." 

Prowl takes a moment to consider asking Jazz, then firmly quashes the idea. "That's not what I came here to talk to you about." 

"No, it's not is it?" Ratchet tilts his helm, looking at Prowl, then vents. "Let's go to the private examination room." 

 

"It's soundproofed," Ratchet says briskly, shutting the door. "So you don't have to worry about anyone overhearing anything they shouldn't. I take it you're here because of something to do with the bond."  

"Yes." Prowl's doorwings twitch a little in discomfort. "I have some questions." 

"I'll try to help," Ratchet's tone gentles a little. "Are you having any trouble with Jazz?" The medic falters for a nanoklik, professional demeanor momentarily slipping to reveal discomfort, "I mean... he hasn't been bothering you, has he?" 

"No," Prowl looks down.  

"Good." Ratchet sounds relieved. "Are you managing to work together?" 

Prowl nods. "There have been some conflicts, but over all, I would say yes." 

"And he's behaving towards you in a purely professional manner?" Ratchet asks shrewdly.  

There's a pause.  

"Primus help me, I will take him apart bolt by bolt..." 

"That won't be necessary." 

"Oh, I think it will," Ratchet says grimly, grabbing a spanner from a medical cabinet. "I know you think you can handle this, but you shouldn't have to! We should never have put you into a position like this." 

"I have also not always acted in a purely professional manner towards him." 

"Oh," Ratchet says. "Oh." He sits down rather heavily on the medberth in the middle of the room. "I see. Have you sparkmerged again?" 

"What? No." Prowl stiffens, his internal temperature rising with embarassment. 

Ratchet gives him a look like he's being silly for getting flustered at being asked such an intimate question, then asks again, still in the same ruthlessly professional tone, "Have you overloaded together in other ways?" 

"No," Prowl grits out.  

"But you want to." 

Prowl doesn't answer.  

Ratchet vents heavily. "It's hard to help you if you won't talk." He walks over to another medical cabinet, this one locked, and takes out a cube of something a colour too rich and deep to be normal energon. "Here." He hands it to Prowl, then takes out another. 

Prowl turns the cube over in his hands. "High grade?" 

"It's medicinal," Ratchet corrects, "but yes, it can also get you overcharged." 

Prowl must look dubious. 

"I'm not going to get you strutless, but you look like you could use a drink. I know I could." Ratchet sits back down on the edge of the medberth. "There's a stool in the corner." 

Prowl finds the stool and takes a seat. After a moment, he cracks open the cube and takes a sip. The energon slides smoothly down his fuel intake, without any of the unpleasant aftertaste of impurities that Prowl has come to expect from the homebrewed high grade generally available. Maybe it does make it easier to talk, because a moment later Prowl asks the question that's been weighing on his mind. "Any attraction I feel, or that he feels towards me, is all artificial, isn't it? It's the sparkbond carrying out its programming, keeping us tied to one another." 

Ratchet takes a sip of his own cube before answering. "The bond will certainly influence your feelings towards each other," he says, carefully. "It will draw you towards him, and yes, it will create a certain amount of mutual physical attraction." 

"I see." Prowl analyses their last interaction, remembering the suppressed pleasure he'd felt at just touching Jazz. All an unfortunate side-effect, it turns out. 

"That doesn't mean you have to interface. The bond ties you together, but it doesn't force you. You still have that much freedom." Ratchet's voice is uncharacteristically sympathetic. 

"You talk about freedom," Prowl observes. "Yet even if the bond will not force Jazz and I to interface, there are many restrictions it does place on our freedom."  

"It's true," Ratchet acknowledges. "You won't be able to sparkmerge with other mechs. Interfacing through other methods will still be possible however. It's still possible for you to have a fulfilling and intimate relationship with another mech." 

Prowl privately doubts that. Even before the added complication of the sparkbond, he'd struggled to find the time and interest for pursuing a relationship. He changes the subject. "I've heard that a sparkbond allows the sparkmates to bypass each other's firewalls." 

"That's true. I have spoken to Jazz about this already and he's given his word not to abuse that power."  

"Is it true that sparkmates can also remotely access each other's audio/visual feeds?"  

"Ye-es," Ratchet hedges. "If the other allows it. It's not automatic." He gives Prowl a troubled look. "Jazz isn't going to be able to spy from your eyes, Prowl. Not without you knowing and consenting." 

"I see." Prowl puts the cube down, still almost full. "Thank you for answering my questions." 

"It's my job," Ratchet answers slowly. He still seems troubled. "Prowl... is there anything else you want to talk about?" 

Prowl shakes his helm, standing to go. "No. You've been very helpful." 

He leaves, aware of the weight of Ratchet's stare on his back.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter! And posted earlier than I normally get an update out, mainly because next week is going to be a bit hectic, so not sure when the next chapter will be up. Thanks again to everyone leaving kudos and reviews, you're all the best.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May contain deathrays.

“Optimus?” Prowl waits in the doorway to the control room until Prime looks up from the monitor.

“Oh, Prowl. Thank you for meeting me here. I had some work to finish.”

“I'm sorry if I caught you at a bad time,” Prowl says, stepping into the room. From here, he can see Optimus's monitor, and he's not surprised to find it opened to multiple reports. He thinks he recognises one of his own, before Optimus switches to another pane.

"Not at all,” Optimus dismisses Prowl's concern. “So I hear you and Jazz are planning something." Prime looks up from the monitor.

Prowl stifles the automatic doorwing twitch of surprise. "We were," he says neutrally, "I was coming to talk to you about that actually." He'd commed Prime asking if they could talk privately, but he hadn't expected Optimus to know the reason for Prowl wanting to meet. Still, he tries not to give away his surprise.

"Yes. I hope you don't mind, but I called a meeting."

"Of course not," Prowl says. There isn't really any good way to say he'd rather not discuss the mission he and Jazz have cooked up together in front of the whole officer cadre, and it wouldn't do to be too visibly dismayed to find Optimus better prepared than expected for what Prowl wanted to discuss. That could be seen as a sign that things aren't going too well on the interdepartmental cooperation front, and that Prowl is failing to keep Jazz under control, which could either make Prowl look incompetent or like he's deliberately hiding things from Prime. He wonders if either of those outcomes are Jazz's intention, and if so, why. He thought they'd moved past. Silently seething he follows Optimus from the control room down the corridor. Optimus stops in front of the main meeting room and holds open the door, inclining his helm graciously. "After you."

Prowl steps through, nodding as his eyes land on Ratchet, already sitting at the table, Wheeljack and a mech that Prowl recognises as Perceptor sat beside him. Ironhide and Red Alert are sat on the opposite side, Jazz sat on the table's end. As Prowl's gaze falls on him, Jazz lifts his chin in an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement.

>Saved you a seat.

>Thank you.< Prowl takes the seat, aware that Ratchet's eyes are on him. If it surprises Ironhide or Red Alert to see Prowl voluntarily sitting with Jazz, neither react visibly. >So you told Prime?

>Not me.

Which means either Bumblebee or Mirage, as Prowl hasn't brought his department in. Prowl rather doubts Mirage was the one to go to Prime, given his previous interactions with the former noble. As an Enforcer, Prowl had learned firsthand how leery of outside involvement the Tower mechs could be. So that left Bumblebee. So far Prowl hasn't taken much notice of the little minibot, aside from briefly wondering how a bot like him wound up in SpecOps. Unlike Mirage, he's never sought Prowl out himself, and as far as Prowl is aware, knows nothing about the sparkbond. It occurs to Prowl that perhaps it was Prime who put Bumblebee in Special Ops. _A spy amongst his spies._ It's a move that speaks of a paranoia and distrust Prowl wouldn't have expected from Optimus. He feels his respect for his leader increase even as it occurs to him that there's no way Jazz wouldn't know about that. >You knew this would happen.

Jazz's helm inclines slightly in a subtle nod, but they don't have a chance to speak further as Prime takes his seat and the meeting begins.

“Greetings, friends,” Prime looks round the table. “You are probably wondering why I called this meeting.”

“Guessing it's 'cause the Decepticreeps are up to something,” Ironhide says.

“And I'm guessing that whatever they're up to, you need some bots who can science,” Wheeljack says, leaning over the table. He seems excited to be included in the meeting. The other member of the Ark's science division seems less so.

“You're both correct,” Optimus says, optics crinkling briefly before his tone goes grave. “Jazz has uncovered some disturbing information about what Shockwave is up to on Cybertron.”

Ratchet stirs, optics brightening with interest. “Shockwave? How has Jazz found out what that mono-opticked sycophant is up to? I thought he was interrogating the Constructicons. What do they know about what goes on offplanet?”

All optics turn to Jazz, whose been lolling in his chair like he's not paying any attention to the proceedings. It's an act, but Prowl still finds himself exasperated. “Hmm?” Jazz glances up, casually. “Oh, 'bout that. They've been going offplanet. Shockwave's been borrowing them for his experiments.

“His experiments?” Wheeljack and Perceptor say in unison. Both of them sound interested this time.

“What experiments?” Wheeljack asks, almost bouncing in his seat. “Is he working on a death ray? I heard he was working on a death ray.”

“He's not working on a death ray,” Perceptor says, a trace of scorn in his voice. He pauses. “Is he?”

“He's not workin' on a death ray -”

“I told you,” Perceptor mutters smugly. Wheeljack looks as dejected as it's possible to look while wearing a face mask.

“-he's workin' on creatin' a renewable energon generator so the Decepticons don't need t' rely on third party fuel sources..”

“What?” That gets the attention of everyone in the room. They all start talking, asking questions, arguing -

“Quiet.” Prime doesn't shout, but he makes himself heard. “I know this is surprising and unwelcome news, but let us not give in to panic.”

Ratchet mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Too late” but the room quietens.

“How?” Wheeljack asks Jazz, optics bright with curiosity. “We've been working on finding an actual solution to the energon shortage for millennia, and we've got precisely nowhere. No offence, Percy.”

“That's not true,” Perceptor says immediately, sitting up straighter in his chair. “We've made some progress -”

“How close are we?” Ironhide asks bluntly. “To having a working solution?”

“If you've read my reports -”

“No one's read your reports,” Ironhide interrupts again. “Because no one except Jack knows what in the Pit you're talking about.”

Perceptor splutters at that. “I think I explained quite clearly -”

“Well, explain clearer,” Ironhide growls. “Do you have a solution, and if so, when do we pack up and go home?”

“Well,” Perceptor hedges, “No – I haven't come up with a way to circumvent the laws of conservation that make this a problem, but -”

“Too much science,” Ironhide cuts him off.

“He's saying we're centuries away from even a possible breakthrough,” Wheeljack translates.

“So it's inconceivable that _Shockwave_ could have solved the problem,” Perceptor concludes.

Jazz shrugs. “Not saying he's got somethin' that works, but he must think he does. He's got the Constructicons buildin' anyway.”

“Whatever he's working on, we need to know more,” Red Alert cuts in tersely. Up until now the Security Director had been quiet, but clearly he can't hold back any longer. He leans forward intently. “Even if Jazz's information is wrong, he's clearly building something.” His fingers twitch, gripping the edge of the table. “I need to know what.”

“Death ray,” Wheeljack whispers.

“It's not a death ray!” Perceptor snaps.

“A renewable energon generator might prove more deadly to us than a death ray in the hands of the Decepticons,” Ratchet says grimly.

Silence falls over the room as everyone gloomily acknowledges the truth in Ratchet's words.

“So what are we doing about this?” Ironhide asks.

Everyone turns to Jazz, but Jazz looks at Prowl. >S'all yours, boss.

Prowl sits up a little straighter. “We're going to Cybertron. Or rather, Jazz and his team are.”

“How you planning on managing that?” Ironhide asks. “Not like we got flights going to and from there on a regular basis, not to mention it's gonna be hard to get a shuttle close enough to make the drop without the Decepticons shooting it out of the sky.”

“We're going to use the Decepticon's space bridge,” Prowl responds.

Ratchet engine splutters. “Oh, I'm sure they'll be _happy_ to let you pass through.”

“We have a plan,” Prowl says confidently.

“This sounds risky,” Red Alert says doubtfully.

“It is,” Prowl agrees. “But necessary. The Decepticons cannot be allowed to develop that kind of technology.”

“They would be unbeatable,” Ratchet agrees. “Still, I cannot help but wonder at what this war has done to us that we're planning to destroy what could be our best chance at restoring Cybertron.”

“If Megatron planned to use this technology to restore our planet, I would not stand in his way,” Optimus speaks up, vocaliser rumbling. “But I will not see Cybertron restored at the cost of Earth.” He looks around the table, starng each mech straight in the optic. “I will fight to protect Earth and its people. We brought our war to Earth, as much as the Decepticons did, yet the people of Earth have chosen to stand beside the Autobots. We have fought together, and they have offered us something we have been without for too long; a home.”

“Couldn't have said it better myself,” Ironhide grunts.

Ratchet's vents rattle as the medic lets out an impatient sigh. “Yes, yes... You know I agree with you, Optimus, you didn't have to make a big speech.”

Optimus looks as bashful as it's possible to look when you come equipped with a facemask.

Prowl keeps his expression neutral. “The fact remains that for the sake of both the Autobot case and the safety of the humans, the Decepticons cannot be allowed to develop that technology. Prime, do we have your clearance for this mission?”

There's a pause. Prowl's wings ache at the hinges, but he doesn't allow them to droop. Beside him, he can feel the tension spiking in Jazz's EM field, despite his sparkmate's outward nonchalance.

“You have my authorisation,” Optimus says.

Prowl bows his head in relief. He allows his doors to drop slightly, relishing the faint relief that brings.

“Prowl?” Optimus's tone is grave.

Prowl looks up, cables tensing up again.

Optimus just looks at him. “Be careful.”

 

>Meet me in my quarters.

>Oh, sweetspark, I'm yours, anytime, any place.

>Not the time, Jazz. I need to talk to you.

>Fine.<The sabateour drops the flirtation. >You sound serious, not that you don't normally. This 'bout me letting Bee spill the beans to the boss?

Prowl's glad his processor's gotten better at identifying and translating Earth idioms. It makes talking to Jazz a little less of a verbal minefield. >It's not about that. I need to talk to you about something else. In private.

>Really?< Jazz takes the bait. >I'll be right over.

 

“So what was it you wanted to talk to me about?” Jazz begins without preamble, locking Prowl's door behind him.

Prowl take a moment to straighten his desk, neatly aligning his datapads.

“Not talking?” Jazz hops up onto the edge of Prowl's desk, casually sending the datapads into disarray. “Not like you to be so avoidant, love.”

“This is... difficult,” Prowl admits, looking up into Jazz's visor.

Jazz's lips quirk upwards sympathetically. “Not like you to admit you're strugglin' with somethin' either.”

“No,” Prowl agrees.

There's a pause. Jazz toys idly with a stylus. “You can tell me, or I could make you tell me, if that's easier.”

Prowl huffs out a laugh, caught off guard by the humour. “No. But thank you. I appreciate the offer.”

Jazz grins, dentae glinting. “Anytime.”

Prowl sobers. “You're not going to like this,” he warns quietly.

Jazz hitches his shoulders in a shrug. “I'm sure I'll deal.”

Prowl nods, strangely reassured. He cycles his vents. “Did you know that a sparkbond allows sparkmates to remotely access each other's datafeeds?”

Jazz, a study in perpetual motion, stills.

“This allows sparkmates to be cognisant of what is happening to each other no matter the degree of physical separation. I'm not going to pretend I understand the science, something to do with quantum entanglement between our sparks. All I know is that this means a sparkbond can provide a form of secure long-distance communication, a way for me to know what's going on while you're on Cybertron.”

Jazz doesn't say anything, mouth a thin line.

“This is not about me checking up on you, or not trusting you to do your job, Jazz.”

“Then what's it about?” Jazz slips off the desk, and begins to pace restlessly. “Why should I let you in my processor?”

Prowl turns, keeping Jazz in his view. Jazz's agitation reminds him of a caged turbofox, wild and ready to lash out. “Backup. You're going to be alone in a hostile environment, outnumbered and outgunned.”

“Just the way I like it.” Jazz's voice is a purr, low and dangerous.

Prowl crosses his arms over his bumper. He keeps his tone impersonal. “This mission is dangerous. You could die.”

“Baby, that's just the way this game works.” Jazz's tone is scornful.

Prowl doesn't back down. “I could die.”

Jazz pauses in his pacing.

“I could die,” Prowl repeats steadily. “If you die, the psychic backlash could kill me.”

“Prowl...” Jazz says unhappily. “That won't happen.”

“You're right,” Prowl agrees. “It might not kill me, just damage my processor, leaving me permanently malfunctioning.”

“I won't let that happen to you,” Jazz says, voice low.

“You and I both know there are no guarantees in war,” Prowl says quietly. “All we can do is use whatever we have at our disposal to try and give ourselves an edge. Jazz, please.”

Jazz looks away. “Fine. I'll let you into my head.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took a while and we're not at the mission proper yet. Big thank you to everyone who left reviews or kudos, you guys are the best. Special thanks to [glitzbot](http://glitzbot.tumblr.com/-) on tumblr for drawing [awesome art](http://glitzbot.tumblr.com/post/139675195668/this-is-a-scene-from-darkavengerz)!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl looks at things from Jazz's perspective.

It’s quiet.

Prowl watches, impartial as an observer rather than participant as Jazz reaches out for one of his cords. 

There’s nothing inherently erotic about this; there are plenty of reasons to plug into someone other than overloading. And yet. 

And yet, Prowl admits. There’s something about seeing Jazz with one of his panels open that has his charge building. It’s probably because of how rare it is, these days, even amongst friends and allies, for a Cybertronian to remove even a single piece of armoured plating. 

Prowl’s hands feel awkward, hanging at his sides, oddly empty. He feels like he should be holding something now, but at the same time he doesn’t think he should touch. He can’t help, he tells himself firmly, leave this to Jazz. The SpecOps mech is obviously used to navigating another mech’s cabling, digits sorting through wires with a practised, dextrous -

“You’re puttin’ me off.”

Startled, Prowl lifts his optics. 

Jazz’s own helm is lowered, to all appearances totally focused on the cabling. 

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re starin’,” Jazz elaborates, and apparently he’s finished sorting through their cables, one held in each hand. 

Prowl’s doorwings twitch guiltily. “You look like you know what you’re doing,” he deflects. 

Jazz’s helm stayed tilted downwards but the corner of his mouth curves up a little. “Y’could say I have some experience.”

Prowl’s faceplates feel heated, like his cooling systems are having a localised failure in the vicinity of his face. “Oh?” Thankfully his vocaliser doesn’t betray him, tone steady and controlled. 

Jazz’s smile turns a little darker. “Well, normally it’s a one way kinda connection.”

“Ah.” 

Of course, Jazz is an interrogator, trained to break and enter. Jazz is, bluntly, a torturer. Abruptly the shivery feeling in Prowl’s wires turns to something colder, more unpleasant. No matter that today it’s Prowl, not Jazz, who is getting inside someone’s processor. Jazz had agreed that at this point, there’s no benefit to him tapping into Prowl’s datafeeds.

“We don’t have to do this.” The cables hang lax in Jazz’s hands. 

For a moment, Prowl is almost tempted to take the out. “Yes we do.”

Jazz ex-vents in a hiss, and Prowl wonders if Jazz had been hoping he’d back down. He doesn’t have long to wonder; without any further delay or ceremony, Jazz jacks them in. 

It’s surprisingly anti-climactic, as sterile as any number of routine medical examinations Prowl has experienced. There’s no sense of invasion, nor sense of connection, just a flurry of pings from Jazz’s server, requesting access to this driver and that, a slew of prompts that Prowl simply runs on trust and answers in the affirmative, until -

“Ready?”

“Ready.” Prowl’s voice isn’t as steady this time. To be fair, Jazz doesn’t look as confident as he did earlier. There’s a moment of hesitation, before -

Prowl jerks back sharply, almost yanking their cables loose. 

Before -

Too much data, too much -

Suddenly, he’s somehow simultaneously viewing two livefeeds. He sees Jazz/sees himself, sees the locked medbay from two perspectives. It’s a dizzying kaleidoscopic assault on the sensors, his processor working overtime to try and track every object in two places at once. 

And then the audio feed hits him. 

Dimly, he’s aware of falling to his knees, hands clamped over his audial sensors in an attempt to block out the noise. 

“Prowl?” 

Jazz’s voice, oddly layered and almost-echoed and - Prowl can’t stop the hurt blurt of static before it leaves his vocaliser. 

“Make it stop,” he begs, looking up at Jazz/looking down at himself. He scrabbles desperately at his chest for the cables, ready to just pull them out. 

“Hey now,” Jazz sinks into a crouch. “Stop that.” His own hand covers Prowl’s, gently stopping him. 

“Hurts,” Prowl says, tightly. 

“Yeah, I figured that much out myself,” Jazz says.“Lemme -”

Prowl jerks, one of his visual feeds cutting out without warning. He’s left looking at himself, out of Jazz’s eyes. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, shoulda warned ya.” 

The audial feed is still oddly doubled, but Jazz is keeping his voice low, which helps. Without the dual visual imput, it’s a lot easier to cope with. It’s still disorientating and weird, to see himself and not see Jazz, but it’s not as bad. “Thanks.”

“S’okay.

There’s a lull in the conversation. Prowl would say it’s quiet, except it’s not. He can hear things; the minute creaking of metal coming from Jazz, crouched awkwardly, the quiet hum of thier fans, the tramp of feet in distant corridors, and a room over, in the adjoining medical office where he’d insisted on waiting on standby, he hears Ratchet sigh.

Prowl watches his own face crease into a frown. “How can you cope with this?”

“With what?” There’s a wary edge to Jazz’s voice. 

“The noise.” Prowl is hearing things well out of the normal Cybertronian hearing range. 

Jazz stays quiet long enough that Prowl thinks he’s just not going to answer. “Let’s just say I’ve got some upgrades an’ leave it at that.”

“Ah.” Prowl watches the frown on his faceplate smooth out. He has his own upgrades of course, the TacNet being the main one. He finds himself wondering what other upgrades Jazz has, but doesn’t bother asking; Jazz is obviously going to be cagey with the details. “Was it hard to adjust?”

“A little, but I’m used to it now.” 

Unhelpful, but Jazz is clearly unwilling to go into detail. Prowl wants to know the mechanics of how Jazz functions without getting overwhelmed like Prowl is in danger of doing. Perhaps he should drop the indirect queries and pursue a more aggressive line of questioning. Demand that Jazz share his methods. It’s the logical approach; Prowl needs to know how to do this without keeling over from sensory overload, and Jazz has already agreed to letting Prowl use him. 

Prowl watches his fingers drum an absent tempo against his own leg as he thinks. For whatever reason, he’s reluctant to force Jazz into sharing this information, even though he needs it. Prowl feels a stab of irritation; why can’t Jazz just comply and give him all the relevant information he needs to know to deal with Jazz’s upgrades; for that matter, why couldn’t he have warned Prowl about his upgrades? 

Abruptly, Prowl realises he’s being unfair. After all, he’s sat here with his optics offlined because he hadn’t realised how his own upgrade would affect this experience. Normally, his TacNet doesn’t overwhelm him because of the algorithms he’s developed that allow him to filter the mass of information the TacNet generates at all times. He hadn’t thought to tweak his algorithms to deal with double the input, and hadn’t thought to mention this possibility to Jazz. 

A guilty twinge as he remembers Jazz’s hands on his own, stopping him from ripping the cables out and the resulting surge of sensory backlash that would have generated. Jazz hadn’t asked questions, just helped, using his access to Prowl’s server to turn off his optical sensors for him. Perhaps Jazz deserves an explanation. So far this experiment has forced Jazz to reveal far more about himself than he’d wanted to. It would only be fair if Prowl were to reveal something personal about himself. Besides, Prowl thinks, a calculated display of trust might make Jazz more forthcoming. 

“It took a while for me to adjust after I had the TacNet installed,” Prowl offers. In a way, it’s almost easier to talk without seeing Jazz’s face, feels less like he’s offering personal information to someone. 

“Oh yeah? What was that like?” 

Prowl feels a spike of satisfaction as Jazz takes the conversational bait. While the existence of the TacNet technology had always been public knowledge, the details of how it worked had been kept quiet by the Enforcers. He’s not surprised Jazz can’t pass up the opportunity to learn about it. “I was… aware of everything. Every object, all at once. If they were moving, I knew their trajectory, their velocity. I could calculate the mass, the dimensions of every object just by looking.” His lips thin into a tightlipped smile. “I think I crashed my processor three times the first orn.”

“Ouch,” Jazz says, with what sounds like genuine sympathy. “Still, that sounds like a pretty sweet piece o’ tech.”

“It is,” Prowl agrees. “The problem was, the TacNet didn’t have any inbuilt way to prioritise that data.”

“That’s a design flaw an’ a half..”

“It’s not a design flaw.”

Jazz vents air in a contemptuous hiss. “Three processor crashes in an orn? Sounds like a flaw t’me.”

Prowl watches his own lips curve upwards in amusement. “Not every mech is suited to a TacNet, just like not every mech has the processor for tactics. Some mechs, you can give them all the information available on a situation, and they’ll still have no idea how to react to it.”

“Not sure what you’re gettin’ at.”

“Tactics aren’t just calculations, although calculations, probabilities, predictive analytics… those are all part of tactics. There’s more to it than mathematics, or any drone could do it. There needs to be a person looking at the data, to determine what’s important and what’s…” Prowl spreads his hands. He’s never really tried to explain his job before. Other bots generally think his job is all dry deskwork, and both are disinterested in hearing about it, and think he’s weird for enjoying it.

“Huh. Sound pretty passionate for a bot who’s meant to be sparkless.” The teasing note in Jazz’s tone takes most of the sting out of his words. 

Maybe it’s because there’s something freeing about not having to look another mech in the eye as he talks, maybe it’s because Jazz isn’t mocking him, or maybe it’s even because he wants Jazz to understand that Prowl says what he says next. “Being a tactician isn’t just my job, it’s my life,” Prowl says simply. 

“Huh.” 

Prowl can’t read the emotion behind the sound, and for a moment he wishes he could just take back everything he’d said. 

“I can dig that. Y’don’t go into SpecOps for the benefits package.” Jazz’s tone shifts into something more serious. “An’ it ain’t exactly the kind of job y’get to walk away from.”

“I know what you mean,” Prowl says softly. 

There’s a moment of quiet between them, oddly companionable. Generally, their silences are fraught; tension filled minefields with more explosive potential than a normal mech’s shouting match.

“So, how’d you learn to deal with your upgrade?” Jazz asks, a klik later. 

Prowl returns his thoughts to the topic at hand. “Like I said, I wasn’t part of the first generation to get the TacNet. By the time I got mine installed, there were plenty of guides to optimise settings, and mods to help streamline the data.”

“So, you use mods?”

“Yes, although I built my own. Most of us did.”

“Why’s that?” Jazz sounds genuinely interested.

“Like I said, being a good tactician isn’t just about relying on calculations.”

“Y’mean a pre-built mod would be too generalised.”

“Exactly.” Prowl feels a small thrill of pleasure at Jazz’s ability to understand. “I needed to customise the TacNet to prioritise the types of data I found most relevant, based on the types of cases I was working and the types of situations I was likely to find myself in.”

“That makes sense,” Jazz says. “‘xplains why you were glitching out earlier. I’m guessin’ split visual wasn’t a situation you’d planned for.”

“No.”

There’s a beat, a hesitation. Prowl wonders whether Jazz is going to make Prowl drag the information out of him. 

“Sounds kinda like how my upgrade works,” Jazz says finally. “I’ve got different profiles built for different jobs. Lotsa filters on so I don’t burn out my receptors.” Another pause. “I can give you access to them, I guess.”

Prowl keeps close watch on his face to make sure he doesn’t let his triumph show. “Thank you. That would be helpful.”

“Sure,” Jazz says, then quickly, “you gonna be able to work out a fix for the visual side of things?”

“Of course,” Prowl assures him. “It shouldn’t really be hard, now I know what to expect.”

“Alright then,” Jazz says briskly. “I’m gonna disconnect us, so get ready to switch your optics back on.”

“And now we’ll be able to do this wirelessly?” Prowl asks. 

“Yeah, we’re good to go now, everything’s networked.” Jazz says, and then there’s a hand in Prowl’s field of vision, reaching for the cables. Everything goes black for a moment as Jazz’s relayed visual feed cuts out. 

“Y’alright turning your optics back on?”

Jazz’s voice, but without the oddly layered harmonics from dual audio input. 

“Of course,” Prowl says, rebooting his optics. His visual systems come back online and for the first time in half a joor he finds himself looking at Jazz rather than through the other bot’s eyes. His first emotion is dismay; it’d been so easy not to think about what he was doing, who he was opening up to when he didn’t have to see Jazz. He tries to quash the emotion; his approach had worked, Jazz had volunteered information, and all it had cost Prowl was some personal information of no real significance. That was a victory, so why did he feel like he’d lost something? 

“Y’alright?” Jazz is looking at him, helm cocked to one side. 

“Yes. I’m fine.” 

“Good.” Jazz offers him a hand up. “I’ll send you my mods tonight for you to look over. Y’think you can have your mods ready by Friday?”

Friday, two Earth days from now. “I should be able to. Is that the confirmed date for our mission then?”

Jazz nods soberly. “We got intel that Friday’s the next day the spacebridge is being activated.”

Prowl nods, processor clearing as he focuses on the mission. “I’ll be ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So there's been a really long break between chapters. Sorry about that! I have read all the comments left and I want to say thank you to everyone, sorry I haven't been answering them personally, but I do really appreciate them. I've got the next chapter written, so that'll be posted in about a week's time, and I'm trying to use that time to write the chapter after that, so hopefully we should be back to a more regular posting schedule.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breaking and entering.

>Is everyone in position?<

>Ready, Mirage confirms.

> Standing by.< Bumblebee's commline crackles with nervous static.

> Jazz?< Prowl's tone is utterly impersonal, not even a hint of feeling coloring it.

Two can play at that game.  

> Say the word, Jazz sends. > I'm ready whenever you are.

> Bumblebee, you're clear.

There's a pause, then -

> It's done.

> It's done?< There's an edge of surprise to Prowl's tone, Jazz registers. > I'm not registering anything in their security, are you sure -

Somewhere inside the Deception base, an alarm begins to blare.

> He's sure, Jazz drawls.

> First alarm is silent, only Soundwave is alerted, Bumblebee explains.

> Then he gets one of his serfs to investigate.<

> Sees our Bee up to no good, sets off the main alarm.<

> Decepticons mobilise to investigate, Prowl finishes. > Right. Mirage are you ready?

> Ready? I started breaking in while you were still going over the plan.

> Has your presence been detected? Prowl sends, tone terse.

> Not yet. They're all too busy running after our little friend at the moment. Really, I'm not sure all this was necessary.

> Don't underestimate Soundwave, Prowl sends.

> Just cause ya don't see him, don't mean he ain't around, Jazz adds. > You might be invisible, but doesn't mean he don't have other ways of detecting you. Mech's got the best audial receptors in the Decepticon army.

> That reminds me,  Prowl sends, >Jazz, you're sure this commline is secure?

> Don't worry, mech, I got Blaster to hook us up. He knows me well enough not to ask why we need a comm frequency with this level of encryption.

> Good. Bumblebee, how are you faring?

> They haven't caught me but that’s not for lack of trying.

> Good bot, Jazz sends approvingly. > Keep them dancin’ to your beat.

> Mirage, have you been detected yet? Prowl sends.

> I don't - hang on.

The commline goes silent. There's nothing but the crackle of static.

> I've been detected. Mirage's tone is eerily calm. > Ravage.

> Are you trapped? Prowl sends, tone steady.

A moment of hesitation. Jazz's hands tighten into fists as he waits for Mirage to answer. Aside from Jazz, Mirage had the most challenging - and dangerous - job.

> No, Mirage sends finally . > I slipped past him, but I know he's tracking me.

A dangerous game, playing hide and seek in the shadows with Ravage, but it should convince Soundwave he's found the real break in attempt.

> Good work. That should keep Soundwave occupied. Jazz, you're clear to go.

Jazz gets up, taking a moment to stretch out any kinks in his cabling. > I'm goin’.

> Don't take too long, Mirage's tone is tightly controlled. >I don’t like playing the petrorabbit.

> I’m starting to not have as much fun either, Bumblebee admits. >Had a couple of close calls.

> Relax, Jazz sends, treading soundlessly down the loading bay he'd broken into half an hour earlier, >I got this.  

He reaches the end of the bay. Next to the door leading to the rest of the ship, there's a hatch that leads to the maintenance tunnels that run alongside the main corridors. Quickly, he unscrews the electrical box under the keypad to reveal a tangle of wires and cables. Unplugging one of the cables, he connects one of his one and begins to run one of his favorite little programs to crack the lock. After a moment, he hears a muted click. Retrieving his cable, he pulls at the hatch, which swings open, revealing a cramped crawlspace.

Jazz squeezes in, pulling his plating tight against his frame. He's not the biggest of bots, and it’s still a tight fit, designed with maintenance droids in mind more than the average Cybertronian. It would certainly be big enough for Soundwave's cassettes to fit in though, and Jazz tries not to imagine what it would be like to fight Frenzy or Rumble in these conditions.

> Alright, I'm in. The spacebridge should be two corridors away. There's another shipment of energon due to be exported off world late today, according to their schedule.

> You don't think they'll change the schedule because of the break in do you? Bumblebee asks.

Jazz takes a klik to lower the brightness of his visor. He's already applied a coat of matte black stealth paint before this mission began, so he’s as inconspicuous as he's gonna get. Carefully, he begins to creep down the crawlspace. > Don't think so. It's gotta be pretty tricky to coordinate drop times with Shockwave as it is. They're not gonna let one failed break in discourage them.

At least Jazz sure hoped they weren't. That would make his life a whole lot harder.

He reaches a bend in the corridor and turns along it, moving swiftly but silently. He's almost there, approaching the point on his map where he'd marked the spacebridge as being, when he hears it.

Voices, in the corridor outside. Less than a mechameter away, only the wall between the crawlspace and the corridor separating them.

"There's no one here!"

"Doesn't matter. The boss told us to guard this heap of scrap, so that's what we're doing."

"But we're guarding it from no one! That rusty yellow Autobot isn't anywhere near here."

"So?"

"So, I'm bored!"  

"Maybe you should ask one of the medics for an oil change to help with that whine."

“Ha _ha_.”

Metal clangs against metal.

"Ow! Fraggin' stop it, Frenzy!"

A scuffle breaks out. Jazz entertains the idea of trying to find a maintenance hatch and sneak past the two cassettes while they're occupied by each other, but even bolts for brains like those two would probably notice an autobot popping out of the wall.

> Don't want to alarm anyone, but we might have a problem.

Instantly, the commline crackles to life.  

> What's the problem? Prowl demands.

> Soundwave's got the two half-bytes on guard duty.

A crackle of laughter from Bumblebee. > Something tells me those two won't be happy to be out of the action.

> Maybe, but they're not moving, Jazz sends. >I could try and cause a distraction but I don't want Soundwave getting suspicious and digging around down here.

> I'm not far away, Mirage interjects, > I could swing by the end of the corridor, let them catch a glimpse of me. I doubt those two have the self control not to give chase, orders or otherwise.

>No, Prowl answers before Jazz can. >We don't want them to suspect that it's the spacebridge we're after. Stay away.  

>Fine, Mirage says, >but how do you propose Jazz distracts them without alerting them to his presence?  

There's a pause.  

For a moment, Jazz actually thinks Prowl might not have a plan and then -

>Bumblebee, are you still near the docking tower?

>Ye-es, the scout answers hesitantly.

>The canteen should be only a couple of corridors away. Head towards it. When you get there, find the energon dispenser and shoot it.  

>Uh -< Bumblebee begins, sounding unsure.

>For Primus's sake! Are you trying to get him killed?< Mirage snaps.  

>No.< Prowl's own cool never slips. >I'm trying to get him to set off the fire alarm.

>That's gonna send every Con in this place after him, Jazz says. He doesn’t want to undermine Prowl, not when they’re actually out working in the field together, but he’s not letting one of his operatives get offlined either.

>It's going to get every con scrambling and confused, Prowl corrects. >But yes, it will also increase the risk of Bumblebee being captured or injured.

Jazz doesn’t send anything. Prowl’s message is received loud and clear; he knows the danger he’s putting Bumblebee in, he just clearly thinks it’s an acceptable risk.

>You’re going to get him offlined, Mirage sends grimly.  

>Bee, you don't have to do it, Jazz sends. >We can find another way.

>Too late, guys.< Bee’s voice is cheery, but Jazz can tell it’s false bravado.

Jazz is too far away to hear the sound of the explosion itself, but he can't miss the audial-deafening wail of the alarm that goes off. Clamping his hands over his audial receptors as he dials down their sensitivity, it takes a moment before Jazz can hear Rumble and Frenzy's reaction.  

“What in the Pit?!”

“What’s that fraggin’ noise?”

“Sounds like trouble.”

“Do you think we should…?”

“Race you there!”

“Hey! Frenzy, don’t just - aw slag it.”

Jazz can hear Rumble mumbling angrily under his breathe and then the slap of metal feet against the floor. He hurries to the nearest hatch, and inches it open. >Corridors clear. Good job, Bee.

>Happy to help. You ah, you think it’s gonna take you much longer to get in?

Jazz smiles a little, letting himself drop soundlessly to the floor. He’s already taken care of the security cameras in this section of the ship, setting up a program that should erase him from the film. He slips across the corridor, up against the door behind which the spacebridge should lie. It’s shielded from his scans, and locked; a good sign. The lock takes less than a klik to crack, and then Jazz is in.

>I’m in. Give me a breem to get hidden and then get out.

Jazz looks around the room; it’s a medium sized room, non-descript aside from the freestanding arched gateway in the middle of the room. The spacebridge. Beside it, a console to activate and set the destination of the spacebridge, and in front, a metal pallet, gleaming pink with stacks of energon cubes.

Now for the tricky bit. Jazz pulls out a specially made  and reinforced energon container from his subspace, and resizes the container until it's somewhat larger than one of the cubes on the pallet. He pulls out a length of tubing and , making a small tear in one of the cubes on the pallet, begins to siphon the energon into his own container. Once he’s siphoned the first cube dry, he moves to the next cube, removing more energon until he’s fully compensated for his weight. It’s never a good idea to go through a spacebridge that’s not been correctly calibrated for the mass its displacing.

Once he’s done, Jazz takes his now-filled cube and carefully squeezes it from the corners, compressing it down into a superdense cube the size of his closed fist. Carefully, oh so carefully, aware that the volatility of the energon has increased relative to its compression, he tucks the cube away in his subspace for later.

With the cube is safely stored, Jazz relaxes a little. The now-hollow energon cube on the pallet provides a safe, if cramped space for him to crawl into. Making sure all his masking tech is running, he sends the all-clear. >In position. Both of ya get out, before y’get hurt.”

>Easier said than done, Mirage gripes.

>Gotta agree with with Raj on this one, Bee sends. >I’ve got blaster burn all over my paint.

>Scorch marks might actually improve that paintjob.

>Raj, Jazz tries to sound disapproving. >Say sorry.

>Only if he apologises for burning my optics.

>Both of you, shut up, Prowl interrupts. >Bee, where are you?

>Um… not sure?< The minibot sounds apologetic. >I kinda lost track after Starscream joined the chase.

>Starscream?!< Prowl and Jazz broadcast simultaneously.

>Bee, y’didn’t mention you had Megatron’s second in commander gunning for your taillights!

>Why didn’t you tell us?

Prowl’s detachment must be slipping, there’s something awfully like worry in his tone.

>Didn’t seem like a good time, Bee sends. >Besides, I can handle this!

Mirage makes a sound like one of his engines has backfired. >No, you cannot. Head north, that will lead you towards the exit. Stay alive. I’ll find you.

>What you gonna do when you find him, Raj? Jazz asks, tense. It’s hard, sitting pretty, when his subordinates are in the line of fire.

>I’m breaking cover.

>You sure that’s a good call?

>He’s right, Prowl sends. >There’s too many Cons and too much distance between Bee and the exit. Mirage needs to draw some of the fire away from Bee.

>Sorry, Bee sends, apologetic. >I shouldn’t have lost track of where I am.

>Not your fault, Bee, Jazz sends quickly. >You’ve done a good job keepin’ yourself in one piece.

>It’s my fault, Prowl sends. His tone’s emotionless, like he’s admitting to nothing more than a minor miscalculation, but that ain’t fooling Jazz. >It was my call that got Bee in deeper.

>It’s not your fault either, Jazz sends. >It was the right call, I needed that diversion.

>Let’s not argue whose fault this situation is, until we’re out of it, Mirage snaps. >Prowl, if you have anything more helpful than guilt, now would be the time to share.

>Of course. You’re right, Mirage.

Prowl promptly moves from apology to strategy, and, hidden in amongst a decaorns worth of energon rations, Jazz raises an optical ridge to himself. On the commline he can hear Prowl, a steady tone giving orders and advice, a constant stream of information. He hears Bee, panicky but trying his best to hide it, asking a dozen questions, irrepressibly curious even now and Jazz can hear the way the panic in Bee’s tone seems to ebb with each answer Prowl provides. Mirage is more snide, more skeptical, but even he seems to be listening to Prowl.

It’s almost like they’re an actual team.   


Jazz doesn’t relax when Bee and Mirage make it off the Nemesis in one piece. He doesn’t relax when they make it to solid ground, and he doesn’t relax when Bee gives the all clear.

>Raj, you sure they ain’t chasing ya?

>Jazz, Bee sends, a hint of a whine under his words. >I told you. We’re safe.

Jazz ignores him. >No one in the skies?

>We’re not being followed, Mirage assures him. >We made it out.

Jazz sags in relief, cables suddenly untensing. >Okay. Alright.

>You’re the one in danger, Mirage points out. >You’re the one inside the Decepticon base without backup.

>Gee, thanks for the reminder, Jazz sends sarcastically.

>Anytime.

>Mirage is correct, Prowl sends. >You are in the most danger. Jazz, what is your situation?

Jazz resists the urge to kick at the walls of his cube. Small, enclosed spaces and long periods of confinement might all be part of the job, but they’ve always been his least favourite part. >Same’s when you last asked me, mech. I’m wrapped up like a parcel and just waitin’ for the Decepticons to drop me on Shockwave’s doorstep.

>And you’re sure that this is going to work? Prowl asks, persistent.

Jazz resists the urge to kick the cube a little more forcefully. >Sure as I can be.

>Jazz.<

>Look, it’s a little late to be getting cold feet now, Prowl. Either this is gonna work or it’s not.

>What?<Prowl sounds irritated and confused, the way he always does when Jazz uses Earth idioms. There’s a pause, where Prowl clearly skips to the second part of Jazz’s message. >That’s not very reassuring, Jazz.

Jazz smirks to himself, and starts to reply, then stops. >I hear something.

>What? Prowl sends back immediately.

Jazz doesn’t respond, cutting the commline and listening. It’s earlier than the scheduled time for the drop-off, more than a joor to go. No reason for anyone to be in this section of the ship, unless Bee was right and the the Cons suspect the break-in has something to do with the spacebridge.

There’s the sound of pedefalls in the corridor. Jazz listens, frame locked in place as they come closer, until they come to a halt just outside. He hears voices, muffled by the door, but one screechy enough to still be recognisable.

_What in the Pit is Starscream doing here?_

The door whooshes open.

“- and you’re sure there were no other intruders?”

“Intruders: accounted for.”

Soundwave as well. Jazz’s luck just keeps getting better. He forces himself to keep completely still, cutting his fans completely. Soundwave is the only mech who might have better hearing than him, and Jazz doesn’t want to test exactly how sensitive his audial receptors are. He hopes the tapedeck hasn’t brought Ravage; there’s only so much that can be done to camouflage a scent.

“And do you know what they were doing here in the first place?” Starscream’s tone suggests he doesn’t expect Soundwave to have an answer.

“Autobot motive: currently unknown.”

“Of course it is,” Starscream’s voice drips sarcasm, “It’s not like you’re the so-called intelligence officer or anything, why would you know?”

“Query: reason for Starscream’s accompaniment to spacebridge?”

Jazz smirks to himself; if he didn’t know better, he’d say Soundwave was getting a little fragged off. Quite a feat, given that the Decepticon spymaster liked to act like he’d had all emotions surgically removed, but then, Starscream does have a talent for getting under the plating.

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps to ensure our enemies haven’t gained access to one of our most strategically important assets?”

“Security: Soundwave’s concern.”

“And you’re obviously doing such a good job,” Starscream sneers.

“Starscream has reason to believe spacebridge was Autobot target?”

Jazz’s system feels like it’s suddenly been flooded with coolant as he waits for the answer.

“That minibot with the flashy paintjob was clearly a distraction.”

“Soundwave: agrees. Second Autobot intruder: located.”

“And what makes you think there were only two, hm?”

Jazz’s hand creeps to his blaster, fingers wrapping around the grip.

“Starscream: believes third intruder?”

“Why not?”

“Query: evidence for third intruder?”

“None, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t a third intruder..”

“Starscream’s argument: fallacious. Conclusion: illogical.”

“No it is not!” Starscream snaps, vocaliser reaching the shrill pitch he’s infamous for, “Your complacency is illogical! The Autobots broke in for a reason, one which we do not know, and therefore should not be so conceited as to believe we have thwarted.”

Starscream might be a shrieking spawn of a glitch, but Jazz’ll admit he has good instincts for sabotage. It takes one to know one, as they say.

“Starscream: believes spacebridge the reason?”

“Yes!”

“Query -”

“Why did your cassettes leave their post?” Starscream demands.

Soundwave responds to the question without the faintest hint of annoyance at being cut off. “Ravage and Rumble: reacting to explosion of energon dispenser in canteen.”

“On your orders?”

Soundwave’s silent.

“I didn’t think so,” Starscream hisses, triumphant. “Did you ever stop to consider that their desertion of their post was the goal of that explosion?”

“Possibility: not considered,” Soundwave admits. “No Autobot activity detected in this vicinity.”

“Not by you, anyway,” Starscream sneers.

“Starscream: welcome to check spacebridge for tampering.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

Jazz’s whole frame feels like it's vibrating, electrical impulses flitting along his wires telling him to run. Sitting still takes all his self-control. Never mind that bursting out of hiding into the midst of two of the highest ranking Decepticon officers, deep in their base, without backup or an escape plan, is basically suicide. It goes against instinct to just sit while Starscream slinks around, looking for him.

There’s nothing to do but hope he’s prepared enough, that he’s smart enough and lucky enough to not get caught.

“These are the correct co-ordinates for the drop-off? And the cargo, this is the correct quantity?”

“Affirmative.”

“And you’re sure there are no… hidden surprises.”

Jazz’s grip on his blaster tightens. This is it; the weakest point in his and Prowl’s  plan. While he should be invisible to most scans, the tampering to the energon cube might be visible under close physical scrutiny.

“Scans: conducted. No unusual heat signatures, electromagnetic resonances, or spark signatures detected.”

“Hm.”

Jazz can hear the sound of Starscream’s pedefalls as the jet moves closer to the pallet.

“Starscream: satisfied?” Soundwave’s tone doesn’t give away impatience, but Starscream is clearly used to Soundwave and can read between the lines.

“Yes, yes, fine. It appears -” Starscream drags out the word so there’s no doubt that he’s far from satisfied, “- that the spacebridge and the cargo have not been interfered with.”

“Soundwave: has clearance to proceed with drop-off?”

“Do what you want. As you say, security is _your_ responsibility.”

“Responsibility: accepted.”

Despite the fact that he’s still not safe, Jazz can’t help smirking a little. If he wasn’t in danger, this’d be great entertainment.

“I’ll be sure to mention that to Megatron if anything goes wrong with this shipment,” Starscream rejoins, never one to let another bot get the last word, and then there’s the sound of a door swishing open and shut behind him.

If it were any other bot than Soundwave, Jazz would expect some kind of verbal reaction to Starscream’s exit, but from the tapedeck, the only reaction is silence, a brief pause before he begins moving around.

Soundwave is noisy. It shouldn’t be surprising, considering his build, but Jazz never expects it from a bot that’s his Decepticon counterpart. Still, stealth isn’t really Soundwave’s priority. Unlike Jazz he doesn’t spend that much time in the field, preferring to send one of his miniature spies to do his work for him.

As a result, it’s easy enough to track Soundwave’s movements; the heavy, slow tramp of his feet as he moves to the console, the even sound of his fans. There’s no suggestion that Soundwave is on guard, that he suspects anyone else is in the room,  but Jazz doesn’t dare turn his commsystems back on. There’s trusting Blaster to make a secure and undetectable commline, and then there’s pitting that trust against a hostile communications expert less than three mechameters away. Prowl’s probably blowing a gasket, but Jazz can’t do anything about that. Once he’s safely through the spacebridge, a dozen starsystems between him and Soundwave, then Jazz will open the bond-link. For now, Prowl’s just going to have to trust Jazz to handle things.

“Soundwave, I didn’t expect to see you.”

Jazz tilts his head, focussing. Shockwave’s voice is staticky and distorted in that way that long-distance communication always is.

“Soundwave: supervising energon transport.”

There’s the slight delay as the call lags. “So I see.” There’s a pause, presumably as Shockwave waits for Soundwave to elaborate, but no explanation is forthcoming. “I trust there’s no problem with my latest energon shipment? I’m at a crucial stage right now, and it’s impossible to proceed without more energon.”

“Shipment: ready. Sending over: now.”

“Ah, excellent. I’ll be ready to collect it.”

That seems to be the end of the call. Jazz is unsurprised to find that Soundwave doesn’t bother with pleasantries such as a farewell.

A low hum, almost subaudible, fills the room. Jazz recognises the frequency of a spacebridge activating. A moment later, he feels the pallet lift into the air, antigravs activating. The movement of the pallet is smooth and slow. He hears the hum of the spacebridge grow louder, until it’s a buzzing in his ears, on his plating. His tanks roil, fuel sloshing. There’s a moment of vertigo, of sickening nausea. A sensation of pressure. Then it all passes, and he knows he’s through. He’s on Cybertron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments last chapter guys, it's really nice to know people are still reading this story.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz makes it to Cybertron, but will he make it back?

Jazz can tell straightaway that he’s not on Earth. The air composition. The gravitational pull. A thousand tiny differences that add up to one thing. He’s home. He’s on Cybertron for the first time in over a million years.

There’s no time to celebrate. Jazz cuts his way free of the cube and wriggles off the pallet. He’s in a room eerily similar to the one back on earth, though more dimly lit, the only light coming from the console’s monitor. The spacebridge is silent, once more inert.

Grabbing the crumbled cube, Jazz shoves it into his subspace, which is becoming uncomfortably full. There’s nowhere to hide in the room, so he darts to the door, opens it and runs out into the corridor.

It’s even darker in the corridor, no overhead lighting, only a sinister red exit light at one end of the hallway. The other end is shrouded in absolute shadow. Jazz hesitates for a klik; he doesn’t have any kind of map for wherever the Pit he is, and no idea where to go.

The noise of heavy pedefalls coming from the end of the corridor where the light is make up his mind. Jazz darts into the welcoming darkness.

Around the corner, Shockwave emerges, a sinister monster backlit in red, his one optic glowing yellow in the gloom. Jazz huddles further back, pressing himself flat against the wall. The scientist walks down the corridor, tall and broad enough that he blocks off all the light as he approaches.

To Jazz’s relief, Shockwave stops outside the door to the spacebridge, and lets himself into the room. There’s nothing to do but wait.

Breems pass slowly while he’s waiting in the dark. It’s quiet, too quiet for a bot used to a busy base and the background noises of a planet teeming with life. The only sounds those of Shockwave, moving in the room beyond.

Finally, Shockwave emerges, the pallet of energon floating in front of him. The pink glow seems almost bright in the darkness of the corridor, and Jazz shrinks further back, afraid of being spotted. Thankfully, Shockwave seems absorbed in thought, pushing the pallet back up the corridor, around the corner and out of sight.

Jazz waits, until the sound of Shockwave’s pedefalls have faded out of range of even his hearing, then slowly edges backwards along the corridor. His outstretched digits brush over an access panel, which activates at his touch.

Servos outstretched in front of him, Jazz moves into the doorway. It’s impenetrably dark. He scans for spark signatures and thermal images and finds none. Reassured that whatever else is in the room, its empty of anything alive, he switches to infrared.

From the dimensions, he’s stumbled across some kind of storage closet. There’s a few shapes like crates, but other than that the room’s bare. He tries the light panel but is unsurprised when it doesn’t work.

Jazz moves into the room, then hits the sensor panel for the door, shutting it behind him. The horrible fear that something’s sneaking up behind him subsides, and he slides down to sit on the floor. Jazz turns off his infrared, letting the dark press comfortingly around him. Checking the commlink, he finds it silent as expected, everyone far, far out of range. For the moment, he’s completely alone. It’s a less enjoyable sensation than he expected, and he reaches out for the bondlink almost gratefully.

Unsurprisingly, he finds a dozen access requests have been sent, the last few increasingly close together. Prowl’s obviously going haywire, and no wonder. According to his internal chronometer, it’s over a joor since he terminated communications, and he hadn’t exactly been able to send any explanation.

Venting, Jazz braces himself and pings Prowl.

Less than a klik later, and he recieves a fresh access request which he grants immediately.

>Jazz.< Prowl’s tone is calm and steady, but Jazz can read the relief in it.

Jazz isn’t going to admit how good it is to hear from Prowl. >The one and only.

>What happened? Where are you? And why can’t I see?

Jazz grins, ignoring the flurry of questions. >You sound worried about me. That’s cute.

>Worried for the mission. What’s going on? Prowl demands

Jazz fills him in quickly on everything that had happened with Soundwave and Starscream showing up.

>I see why you dropped the commline. You made the right call.

>It’s almost like I know what I’m doing.

Prowl ignores the sarcasm. >Starscream’s suspicions could complicate your return.

>I’ll worry about that part when I get to it, Jazz responds. >At the moment, I’ve got Shockwave to deal with.

>I’ll make arrangements to get you out safely.

>Thanks, Jazz sends. It doesn’t come out as sarcastically as he’d intended.

>Be careful, Jazz.

>I'm always careful.

>I feel we have different definitions of constitutes careful, Prowl responds, then, before Jazz can defend himself, >How are you going to locate whatever it is Shockwave has built?

>Easy, Jazz sends, getting to his pedes. >Before I got off, I attached a tracking device to the energon pallet. It's a safe bet that Shockwave is taking that straight to his experiment.

>Good thinking.

>Glad to know it meets your approval, Jazz sends, letting himself back into the corridor. Nothing's coming up on any of his sensors, but he still treads cautiously.

>Emergency lights only. Shockwave must be conserving energy by cutting power to all nonessential utilities.

>That's what I figured, Jazz sends as he reaches the end of the first corridor. There's two turns, one heads into complete, unlit darkness, the other turn lit by the same unsettling red glow as the first corridor. >Guess we know which way to head.

They walk in silence down the corridor. This one ends with a sealed door, this one with a more complex sensor panel in the wall beside it.

>A lift, Jazz sends, inspecting the sensor panel. >Looks like it still has power. I'm guessing this is how Shockwave got the cubes to his lab.

>See if you can find another way, Prowl sends. >Shockwave will have the lift monitored, it's too obvious a access point.

>This ain't my first rodeo, Jazz sends, inspecting the wall panels. >Gotcha.< He presses down the edge of one of the panels, then steps back as it springs open. There's always a back up built in case of power failures.>Guess I'll take the stairs.

Prowl is quiet as Jazz navigates the unlit stairway, one hand trailing against the wall to guide himself. At the top, he stumbles, anticipating a step that isn't there, but catches his balance before he makes a noise.

He half expects Prowl to comment on his almost slip, but all the other mech says is: >I think I hear voices coming from the room beyond.

Jazz tilts his head; voices plural. He sighs. This means dealing with more than Shockwave. He moves forward, servos outstretched, until his digits touch the wall. Pressing close, he listens.

"-more than inconvenient.My project nears completion."

Jazz recognises Shockwave's monotonous complaint.

"My apologies, but, as I have explained, we are under attack."

Jazz presses closer. Under attack? Whoever is speaking doesn't sound familiar, but then he's not been particularly concerned about the offworld Decepticons until recently.

"I was under the impression that security was your concern. Is the Autobot femme giving you that much trouble?"

Jazz smirks; that's one question answered. Knowing Elita, Jazz almost feels sorry for the Decepticons that have to deal with her.

"She's proving difficult to subdue."

"Then take one of my experimental weapons if you wish, there are several that should subdue her quite...  effectively."

Jazz suppresses a shiver. He's experienced first hand one or two of Shockwave's more imaginative inventions. Both experiences were painful enough to stand out from other, less memorable torture attempts. He feels Prowl react to that, somewhere in his head; a flare of emotional response subdued too quickly to read.  

“Thank you, m’lord. That should help considerably.”

Jazz turns his attention back to the situation at hand, and away from old memories. Frustration eats at him like rust. He needs to know who’s speaking to Shockwave, and he can’t place the bot on voice alone. Digging his fingers into the crease between door and wall, he slowly starts to prise the door open a fraction.

>Jazz - Prowl begins, a warning.

Jazz ignores him, peering through the crack.

Neither bot in the room beyond seems to have heard anything. It’s hard to see, through the tiny chink in the door. The room beyond seems almost as ill lit as the hallways below. He can make out Shockwave’s bulky frame, that familiar shade of Decepticon purple. The bigger bot blocks his view. He catches a brief flash of colour, an unnatural shade of green.

>Acid Storm, Prowl supplies, placing the bot before Jazz.

The head of the Rainmaker Trine, a bot with all of Starscream’s  razor-edged intelligence, but none of his ambition. Still no less dangerous an adversary for that.

“Good. If that’s settled, then. I have my own matters to attend to,” Shockwave says dismissively.

“As you command, my lord.” Acid Storm’s tone suggests the matter isn’t settled but that he’s not fool enough to argue with Shockwave. There’s movement, and the tramp of metal feet as Acid Storm leaves.

“Finally. My experiments await. There had best be no further interruptions…” Shockwave’s voice fades as he disappears from sight.

>What did you think of that? < Prowl sends.

>Shockwave talkin’ to himself? That the mech’s got a few screws loose. Not that I’m surprised; he was creepy before he got left behind with only a couple of flyboys for company.

>Did you notice that Acid Storm called him lord? I thought that was a title reserved for Megatron.

>I did. Don’t think old Megs’d be thrilled if he found out.< Jazz tilts his helm thoughtfully. >You thinkin’ the Cyclops’ got designs on more than an energon generator?

>I think there’s a reason Megatron isn’t sending over more of his forces to help with the defence of this place.

>Doesn’t trust Shockwave with an army? Interesting.< Jazz pulls the door open wide enough that he can slip through.

>Jazz!< Prowl’s reprimand is instant.

>Cool your engine, I did a sensor sweep. The place is empty.

Empty and huge, at least a hundred mechameters in length, with a high, distant ceiling. Jazz has no idea what it would have been used for before the war, or, for that matter, what it’s being used for now. The odd dim light turns out to be coming from the far wall, which is made up of translucent panels. At one point they must have lit the room with sunlight, but time has left them coated with a layer of grime that the light struggles to pass.

There’s shapes in the dust on the floor, Jazz notes as he walks across the room, suggesting that at one point this room was being used for something.

>Perhaps this housed more of Shockwave’s experiments? Prowl sends, uneasy.

>Maybe, Jazz agrees. He’s not that comfortable himself; there’s something about the place that makes him feel on edge, more than just the normal thrill of sneaking into an enemy base. Something about the gloom and the once-faded glory of the room. His plating tingles, like someone’s gaze is on him. Feeling horribly exposed, he makes his way to the windows.

>What are you doing?

>C’mon, Prowl. Don’t tell me you ain’t curious. We come all this way and you don’t even want to see what it’s like out there?

Prowl is silent in his head.

Jazz takes his lack of protest for assent. Despite his own words, he’s actually not to eager to see outside. It’s with a mixture of disappointment and relief that when he reaches the windows he finds them too filthy to see out.

Futilely, he tries to wipe one of the panels, but most of the dirt’s on the outside. He looks around, trying to spot any latches or hinges, but the panels seem only to be joined at the edges.

>Come on, Prowl sends. >We don’t have time for this.

Jazz presses a servo to one of the panels. Just beyond lies Cybertron.

>Jazz.<  There’s a finality to Prowl’s tone. >Let it go.

Jazz pauses a klik longer, servo still pressed against the panel like he can somehow push through. Wordlessly, he turns away and starts walking.

Prowl gives him a moment, then the relentless questioning begins again.

>Do you know where you’re going?

>Wherever Shockwave has taken the energon shipment.

>How precise. I don’t suppose you actually know where that might be, Prowl sends, an edge to his words.

Jazz feels his spark lighten a little. Nothin’ like gettin’ under a mech’s plating to cheer him up. >Shockwave’s taken the energon shipment up. ‘Fraid I can’t be more specific than that.

>Great.

>Aw, Jazz sends, walking round the perimeter of the room. >What’s the matter? Y’ scared?

>I’m concerned, Prowl sends stiffly. >As you should be.

>Relax, Jazz sends, stopping in front of a control panel. >I’m a pro. Jus’ sit tight an’ let me do my thing. < He grins in satisfaction. >Here we are. A lift.< He tries the wall panel next to the lift door, searching for another emergency stairway. He finds the door, but time and disrepair have jammed the opening mechanism and Jazz can’t apply enough force to budge it. >Scrap. Looks like we can’t take the stairs this time.

>Using the lift is too risky. We have no way of knowing where it leads to, and there’s too high a risk that our approach will be detected if we use it, leaving us trapped with no easy way to escape.

>Hey now, did I say anything about getting in the lift?< Jazz sends, hitting a button on the control panel. There’s a rumble behind the closed door as the lift begins to ascend. Jazz waits until the noise fades, digs his digits into the join between door and wall and pulls.

>What are you doing?

>Sending the lift to the top floor an’ hoping that ain’t where Shockwave is holed up.< Jazz’s engine revs with effort, and his pedes slide back on the floor, before the door begins to open.

When he’s got it open enough, he quickly slips through the opening, onto the small ledge on the inside of the lift shaft.

>What if he notices someone sent the lift?

>Then we still got a better chance than if we took the lift, Jazz sends, activating the mag clamps he’d ‘borrowed’ from Wheeljack and latching himself to the wall. The lift doors slid shut behind him, leaving him in total darkness. He switches to infra-red, then starts climbing, deactivating a mag clamp to reach up, then reactivating and repeating.

>What if Shockwave takes the lift back down?

>Here’s hopin’ he doesn’t.

>This is very risky.< Prowl sounds disapproving.

>That’s the job.  

They continue climbing in silent darkness for a while, Jazz focusing on the repetitive pattern of release and reattach, pulling himself up bit by bit. Prowl stays quiet, but Jazz can tell he’s not happy about something. >Y’don’t much like how I operate, huh?

>It’s not just your life at risk.

>Relax, Prowl. I won’t get us killed.

>I wasn’t talking about me. This mission is important. It could change the outcome of the war.

>Y’think I don’t know that? Jazz sends sharply. >Look, I don’t have a plan -

>That much is obvious, Prowl sends dryly.

>I have an _objective_. I don’t have enough information to make a plan. So I go in here, and I do what it takes to get the job done, and hopefully I bring back enough information that mechs like you can make plans. I realise that ain’t how you’re used to doin’ things, but this is my job.

>Hm.

To Jazz’s surprise, Prowl sounds almost amused. >What?

>Reflecting that your job sounds more like my job than you might think.

>Oh yeah? Jazz sends, skeptically.

>I’m a Tactical Officer, Jazz. I formulate strategies - plans, but I know that no plan survives past the first few breems of combat. I am not as rigid as you think. You must know that by now.

>Guess you’re right, Jazz sends back grudgingly, still climbing.

>However, I _assess_ the risks before I act.

>Believe it or not, I do too, Jazz sends, skirting round the ledge of the door to another floor before continuing his climb.

>I find that hard to believe.< It’s Prowl’s turn for skepticism.

>I know what I’m doing is risky. Sometimes you have to take the risk, Prowl.

>And I thought you said Smokescreen was the gambler.

>Yeah, but I only bet it all when the stakes are highest.

>What’s that noise? Prowl sends, abruptly changing the topic.

Jazz stops climbing for a moment, cocking his helm. Somewhere, in the dark distance above, there’s a rumbling that grows louder with every klik.

>The lift!< Prowl shouts a warning but Jazz is already reacting, deactivating all but one of his mag clamps. Gravity works against the reduced magnetic force, pulling him down in a barely controlled fall. He angles himself, hoping his memory banks are correct - then hits the ledge.

He only just has time to pull his plating as tight against his frame as possible before the lift rushes past him, rattling thunderously further down into the depths of the shaft.

Jazz feels Prowl’s relief blending into his own. >Thanks for the warnin’, he sends, wincing a little. He hadn’t had time to deactivate his audials, only dampen them.

>Shockwave must have noticed the lift.< Prowl doesn’t acknowledge his gratitude.

Jazz shrugs, reactivating his mag clamps and starting to climb up again. >It was always a risk. Look at it this way; we got him out of his lab.

>But he knows someone’s here.

>He don’t know anyone’s here.

>He has reason to suspect.

Jazz winces; the climb is taking its toll on the cables between his joints, his weight dragging on them as he pulls himself up. >Doesn’t change our objective.

>You’re sure it’s up here?

>That’s what the tracker is telling me.

Jazz keeps climbing, Prowl silent in his head. He skirts around three more ledges. By the time he reaches the final ledge, the ache in his cables has turned to a burn. He pulls himself onto the ledge, gratefully deactivating his magclamps. There’s no time to rest, though. >The tracker is tellin’ me that the energon’s in the next room. Hopefully that’s where he’s keepin’ the energon generator.

>Anyone in the room? He might have left a guard.

>My scanners ain’t detecting any mechforms. I’m going in.

>Be careful - even if there’s not a guard, he must have some kind of security system.

>Why do I need to be careful when I’ve got you for that?< Jazz asks teasingly, forcing the lift doors open.

No alarms go off, or if they do they’re silent. Jazz steps out into a large, brightly lit room. After the darkness of the lift shaft, and the dimly lit room below, it takes his optics a moment to adjust. As soon as they do, his attention is caught by the hulking mass of machinery in one corner.The exposed sections of circuits and wiring give it an unfinished look Beside it are a bunch of monitors, all displaying various charts and diagrams. The energon pallet stands beside it.

Jazz walks over to the half-finished machine. >I’m guessin’ this is it.< He walks around it, visually inspecting it. >Huh. No idea how it works. Bet Jack and Percy would blow a gasket to get a look at this.

>Get on with it, Jazz. We don’t know when Shockwave will be back.

>Alright, alright. Spoilsport.< Jazz snaps a couple of pictures, then crouches down next to the machine, pulling his last gadget out of his subspace. >Here we go.< He attaches the explosive device to the machinery, then moves over to the monitor. >I’m gonna have a quick look, check this is what we’re looking for and we ain’t just blowing up the new Decepticon cleaner-drone.

>Fine, Prowl sends. >I’ll keep watch.

Jazz taps the input pad, and a dialog box pops up, requesting a password. >Slag. Guess Shockwave couldn’t make it that easy.

He doesn’t have time to crack the password and since this isn’t a covert op, he doesn’t have to play it subtle. He forces his way past the system’s security, disabling the password protection. It’s a brute force attack that’s gonna give him a Pit of a processor ache, but it takes mere breems for him to get access. Quickly, he scans the files.

>This is it, we’re in the right place.

>Good, then set it to blow and let's get out of here.

Jazz shakes his helm, already untucking one of his data-cables. >Not yet. Lemme try and download some of this stuff.

>This is too risky, Jazz. You have no way of knowing when Shockwave is coming back, and the only way out is the lift.

>It’s worth the risk. Jack and Percy need this information, Jazz argues stubbornly. >Shockwave is gonna rebuild. If we have get this information, this mission doesn’t just have to be about stalling for time.

>Your death is not an acceptable risk!

>Not even if it means getting information that’ll win us the war?

>How will you bring this information back if you’re dead, or worse,  captured?

Jazz runs his glossa over his back dentae, feeling for the familiar comfort of the suicide capsule. >Capture ain’t an option, not for me. And I’m downloading this information to your memory banks, too, Prowl. Even if the backlash kills or incapacitates you, they’d be able to access your files and find it. Raj already knows to look if something happens to both of us.

>This was always your plan, wasn’t it? Prowl sends flatly.

>This ain’t a suicide mission. I’m still planning on getting back, but yeah. This was always part of my plan, Jazz admits. >If it makes you feel better, I’m sorry.< Prowl begins to answer, but Jazz cuts him off abruptly. >Quiet.

There’s the faint, familiar sound of rumbling.

>Someone’s coming up. Hide.

Jazz detaches his cable and looks around the room. There’s nowhere really to hide, except behind the energon pallet or the energon generator, neither of which will conceal him for long. Quickly, he crouches down behind the generator, out of sight of the lift. He yanks his smallest digit off his left servo, and holds his thumb over the trigger button he’d hidden inside it before this op. He’d wanted to be much further away before he blew the bomb, but one way or another, he’s finishing the mission. He just hopes he’s managed to download enough of Shockwave’s research to be helpful.

Dread settles in his tanks as the rumbling of the lift grows louder. Prowl is silent in his head.

Jazz hears the lift doors open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to everyone reading this that this chapter took so long. I haven't abandoned this fic, even though it probably seemed like that. I have every intention of finishing this fic, but I can't promise how regular the updates will be, although none should take as long as this one did. Thank you to everyone still reading, and to everyone who has left comments, you're definitely what has kept this fic alive.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz makes a phonecall.

Pedefalls, the soft scrape of metal scruffing metal. Whoever has just entered the room walks with a lighter tread than Shockwave but not light enough to escape Jazz’s hearing.

Not Shockwave. Acid Storm, then? Jazz’s servo inches to the blaster at his side. Perhaps if he strikes first -

“I know you’re in here.”

Jazz freezes in position. Not Shockwave, not Acid Storm either. In the background of his thoughts, he feels Prowl searching their combined databanks, trying to match the voice.

“Shockwave thought you were below, but I knew you’d be here. You thought no one saw you, didn’t you?”

More movement. The unseen ‘Con is circling round, coming closer. Jazz shuffles backwards, keeping the half-built energon dispenser between them.

“Don’t you know, Autobot? Primus sees all.”

Laughter, mocking, and tinged with insanity, and the ‘Con lunges.

Jazz is already moving, diving for cover behind the energon pallet. He catches sight of the Decepticon, a flash of glittering gold paint and sleek, aerodynamic lines. Sunstorm. The mad Seeker.

Slag.

>Any ideas, Prowl? Jazz sends, crouching down.

>Don’t get close. He’s leaking enough radiation to peel your paint.

>Good advice, any idea how I can do that? Jazz sends, scurrying backwards as Sunstorm advances again. The only advantage Jazz has is that while the room is big, it wasn’t built with a Seeker’s wingspan in mind. The scrape of metal wings against walls helps him keep track of Sunstorm’s position.

“Stop hiding and die with dignity, Autobot, with the reassurance that your death is divinely sanctioned.”

“Livin’ as an embarrassment has worked for me so far!” Jazz dashes out from hiding, making a break for the lift. Before he can even reach the sensor panel, he's hit by a blast of Sunstorm’s radiation. He howls, vocaliser glitching as the heat strips his circuits, falling to the floor in a crumpled heap of twitching limbs.

>JAZZ!

Jazz whimpers, curling in on himself.

Sunstorm laughs again, gloating, and steps forward, between Jazz and the generator. “How pathetic.”

Curled tight, Jazz smiles unseen, and presses down on the trigger.

The bomb detonates.

Chaos; noise and smoke and flame. There’s no time to prepare, or try to brace for impact. The initial blast sends Sunstorm flying, crashing into Jazz. The Seeker’s frame protects Jazz from the worst of the damage from the second blast, as the volatile energon stockpile ignites.

Jazz’s systems offline briefly. He comes back online to the sound of Prowl going frantic.

>Jazz? Jazz! Respond!

>’m alright.< He’s never been less alright, but he doesn’t have time to be damaged. He sits up with an effort, pushing Sunstorm’s heavy frame off him. Golden paint is scorched and blackened. Heat, more than just the residual amount generated from the explosion, radiates out from the Seeker’s frame. Even the brief contact it takes to get Sunstorm off of him leaves Jazz with welts on his servos.

>Can you stand?< Prowl’s tone is barely controlled.

>’course I c’n stand.< He gets to his feet, then staggers, catching himself on the wall. His equilibrium sensors don’t seem to be recovering. He takes a moment to stare at the destruction he’s wreaked. Black smoke billows from where the generator used to stand; the monitors’ screens are black and dead or cracked and sparking. Part of the floor seems to have caved in, and there’s scorch marks on the wall. If Shockwave wants to rebuild, he’ll have to start from scratch.

>You need to get out of there.< Prowl’s voice jolts Jazz back into motion. It’s not just his equilibrium sensors that are slagged; he must have hit his processor at some point if his inability to focus is any indicator. His frame’s taken a beating as well. Mixed coolant and energon streak the white of his bumper. He’s leaking from somewhere, must have torn some tubing.

Leaning on the wall, he limps over to the lift doors.

>How’re you planning on getting out? Shockwave will have heard that and he’ll be on his way up.

>Lift goes below ground level. Guess I’ll just have to find my way back to the spacebridge.

>If this lift goes to the floor the space bridge is on, then why didn’t Shockwave just take this one?

Jazz shrugs, then winces as the movement pulls at some torn cabling. >Maybe it’s more straightforward to just walk across the hall than through those corridors, especially if he’s only using emergency lighting down there.

>Or maybe this way was been blocked off as a security measure. To stop anyone from gaining direct access to the lab from below ground.

>I hope you’re wrong, Jazz sends, hitting the door sensor. It’s been damaged in the explosion and it takes a couple more hits before the door slides open. The sensor panel inside the lift works fine and Jazz hits the button for the lowest level. The lift begins to move and Jazz slumps to the floor.

>You can’t rest yet.

Jazz doesn’t reply; he knows that, but he’s losing energon and he was already low. Warnings flash on his HUD, stasis lock is inevitable if he doesn’t refuel soon. He thinks ruefully of the lost energon stockpile upstairs.

>Jazz!< Prowl’s tone is sharp. >The light for the ground floor’s just lit up. Shockwave must be trying to call the lift.

Jazz forces himself upright. He can feel the lift slowing as it approaches the ground floor. >I need to override the lift’s protocols.< Digits fumbling, he claws the access panel off with less than his normal finesse and rams a cable into the access port. Normally hacking such a mundane piece of equipment would be a breeze, but his processor feels sluggish, he can’t make sense of the code. >I can’t…

>Let me.

There’s no time to hesitate. Jazz hands over control to Prowl. There’s a pause. Jazz tries not to second guess himself or Prowl.

>Got it.

The ground floor light blinks out and the lift continues down.

Jazz sways on his pedes, dizzy with relief.

>We’re not clear yet, Prowl adds warningly. >He’ll know something’s up since the lift didn’t stop. Be prepared for trouble when the doors open.

>No way anyone will be able to get down quick enough to cut us off.

>You hope.

Jazz doesn’t bother to lie; Prowl is in his head and knows as well as he does that they have no idea what other methods of access there are from the ground floor to the lower levels.

The lift slows again. Jazz readies his blaster, though it won’t be much use against a mech of Shockwave’s size, even if Jazz could aim well enough at this point to hit him.

The doors slid open, revealing a dark, empty corridor. Jazz feels his servos shake as he puts the blaster away again. Lucky.

>Wait a minute, Prowl commands, before Jazz can step outside the lift. >Hook me up to the lift again.

>Why? Jazz asks, but he’s already complying.

>I’m disabling it completely.< Prowl sends, distractedly. >This way you won’t have to worry about enemies coming in this direction.

Jazz feels a surge of gratitude. >Good thinkin’.< It’s the sort of thing he’d think of normally, if his processor wasn’t half-fried from the explosion and that blast of Sunstorm’s radiation.

Jazz limps out of the lift, into the darkness of the corridor. He activates his infra-red and tries to scan the area for mechsigns. The immediate area seems clear but he can’t be sure what lies ahead, the walls of the corridor too thick for his scanners to work with. He takes a chance, and dials his audio receptors up to their highest setting; if anything goes off near him, alarm or explosion, he’ll be incapacitated, but he’ll be able to hear anything coming.

Jazz hears voices, somewhere, muffled and distorted both by distance and by the twists and bends of the underground maze of corridors. The space bridge is in a room somewhere on the other side of this building. He has to assume that there are Decepticons in between him and escape.

>I’m guessing that the way out means walking towards whoever’s down here.

>They must assume you’re heading for the space bridge if you’re down here, Prowl agrees.

>Then we agree, I walk _towards_ the Decepticons.

>As counterintuitive as it sounds…< Prowl’s reluctance is palpable.

Jazz isn’t too eager himself. He creeps forward, through the shadows. He should be cloaked to any scanning systems they’re using, and he’s masked his thermal signature as much as he can, but that's not the same as being invisible.

The heavy tramp of pedes alerts him to Shockwave, two corridors ahead he gauges, and approaching fast. There’s nothing to do except dart around a turn at the end of the corridor he’s come down and hope Shockwave doesn’t come this way. He doesn’t; continuing down the corridor Jazz came from, towards the lift. Jazz stabilises his ventilation; it’s a good thing he did have his hearing dialed so high. Any less warning and he would have been trapped, nowhere to hide in the corridor.

It makes the plating on his back tingle with nervous static to have to continue up the corridor Shockwave emerged from, but he has no other option. Shockwave probably came from the other lift, which meant this corridor should be lead to the space bridge. Jazz walks cautiously down the corridor, anticipating at any klik to feel the blast of Shockwave’s cannon on his backplating.

Jazz hurries on.

Again, his hearing saves him.

“- why he’s got us down here when those fragging Autobot femmes are running wild on the surface.” A disgruntled grumble.

“The lift came down to this level.” Jazz recognises the smooth purr of Acid Storm, the Rainmaker’s leader. "Ergo, someone is down here."

“Maybe it’s a distraction. Those femmes could be blasting down the base’s doors right now and we wouldn’t know.”

Three voices. The whole trine.

>They must be guarding the spacebridge.< Prowl echoes Jazz’s thoughts.

>My ticket outta here.

“It’s not our place to question Lord Shockwave’s orders, whether or not we see the wisdom in them.” Acid Storm’s tone is as sharp as his name.

“Just saying, sending all three of us seems like overkill.” The first voice again.

“Whoever broke in here did get the drop on Sunstorm.” The other Rainmaker disagrees a little, sounding nervous.

The first speaker lets out a dismissive blurt of static. “Not that that’s any great feat. A trineless Seeker who think he’s godtouched.”

“He may be mad, but you know he’s good in fight. If he didn’t have some use, Megatron would have had him put down centuries ago,” Acid Storm interjects. “We’d be stupid to let our guard down.”

>Great, Jazz sends wearily. >Guessing these guys aren’t going to fall for the ol’ ‘explosion in another corridor’ trick.

> No, but they might feel the need to investigate an explosion coming from the upper levels. Perhaps from the direction of this base’s entrance.

> How’re you plannin’ on pullin’ that off?

>I have Elita's comm frequency.

If it wasn’t for the Cons in the corridor beyond, Jazz would have laughed aloud. >Let’s get her on the phone then.

 

***

 

>All right then, Elita sends, tone cool and collected. >My bots are ready to strike at your signal.

>Thanks, I appreciate this. You’re really savin’ my aft.

A ripple of mental amusement from the otherwise almost clinically calm femme. >So it seems. Don’t suppose you want to tell me what you’re doing here, Jazz? Or who gave you my comm codes?

>Sorry, Jazz sends cheerfully. >Classified.

>Of course it is.

>And it’s really slagging Shockwave off.

>Well, anything to slag off that sadistic cyclops.< There’s an edge to Elita’s tone. >I owe him some trouble.

Jazz has read some of her reports. From what he’s read, blowing up stuff won’t come close to payback for some of the things Shockwave has done, but if it gives the femme and her bots any satisfaction then it's worth their involvement. >Ready when you are, Elita.

>Going ahead with the plan now, then. Be ready to move. And Jazz? Good luck.

>You too, Elita.

The commlink cuts abruptly.

Jazz barely gets a chance to collect himself before Elita strikes

“What the hell was that?!” a Seeker yells, barely able to make himself heard over the ground-shaking rumble coming from above.

Jazz is _very_ glad he took the time to dial his audio receptors down.

“I told you! The lift was a distraction! They’re at our doors!

There’s another frame-rattling explosion.

>We did tell Elita we just wanted her to blow the front doors off, right? Not take down the whole building!

>Her mission was to get their attention, Prowl answers. >She seems to have accomplished that.

“Let's get up there before they bring this whole place down on us!

“Don’t move! We wait for orders!” Acid Storm yells over the noise.

>No fraggin’ way, Jazz sends despairingly.

>The Cons are choosing a bad time to be disciplined, Prowl agrees.

“Wait for orders? Are you glitched? We’re being attacked!

There’s a clang and a yowl as Acid Storm demonstrates yet more ‘Con discipline. “We stay here unless and until Shockwave says otherwise. Clear?”

“Clear,” the other Seeker mumbles.

>Fragfragfrag...

“Good, now -” Acid Storm cuts off. A breem later, he speaks. “That was Lord Shockwave. He wants us upstairs. Now!”

To Acid Storm’s credit as a leader, neither of his wingmates dare to say ‘I told you so’.

Jazz waits until he hears the lift go before he moves.

The corridor is deserted, and it’s just a few steps until he’s inside the room with the spacebridge. He powers it up, then selects the co-ordinates for the Decepticon Earth HQ, and calibrates the spacebridge for his mass. The spacebridge flickers to life, that odd low hum in Jazz's audials.

Jazz pauses, uneasy.

>What are you waiting for?

>Dunno. Just, doesn’t this feel a little too easy to you? I keep expecting Shockwave to turn up.

>He will if you keep waiting around, Prowl sends impatiently. >Get through that bridge. I have my team ready to cover your extraction.

Jazz cycles a vent, steadying himself. >You’re right. Okay. See ya on the other side.

He steps through the bridge. One klik and several billion miles later and he steps onto Earth.

He promptly purges his tanks.

“ Well that’s jus’ fraggin’ great,” he mutters, wiping his mouthplate with a servo.

A long, low growl makes him look up. Crouched just out of range of the spilled contents of his tanks is Ravage, tail lashing angrily.

Jazz hastily straightens, into a defensive stance. “Absolutely fragtastic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments on the last chapter, guys! I'm at TFNation this Sunday, which should be a lot of fun! Hopefully I'll see some Jazz or Prowl cosplayers.


	15. Chapter 15

Jazz dives for the exit at the same time that Ravage leaps.The feline-formed cassette is quicker, colliding with him mid-air and knocking him to the ground. Jazz thrashes under Ravage, all grace gone. The cassette is lighter than him, but strong and uninjured. Jazz struggles to throw him off, as sharp claws scrabble against and puncture his plating.

>Get him off!

>What d’you think I’m tryna to do here?! Jazz snaps. He finds a gap in Ravage’s plating and yanks viciously at the exposed wiring. 

The Cassesticon snarls at him, and goes for the neck. Jazz jerks away, cracking his helm against the floor. A wave of dizzyness hits him.

>You have to get out. If Ravage is there, that means Soundwave will be soon.

>Tell me something I don’t know!<  

Ravage lunges again, fangs bared. Pinned, Jazz shoves his servo into Ravage’s jaw, frantically pushing the cassette away from the delicate and exposed tubing that connects his helm to his torso. 

Growling, Ravage bites down. 

Jazz hears the crunch as those sharp dentae cut through three of his digits. The feedback almost makes him offline. His strength is sapped, he’s running on fumes. By rights he should have shut down quarter of a joor ago. 

>Jazz! You can’t give up!< Prowl’s tone is fierce.

There’s a flood of strength not his own. Somehow, Prowl must be feeding him his own power through the sparkbond. Jazz takes it, desperately, greedily, and fights back, gripping Ravage with his mutilated servo, and freeing his good servo to go for the optics. 

Startled, Ravage tries to pull back, but Jazz won’t let him, gripping tight to the casseticon’s muzzle, despite the slipperiness of his own energon coating everything. His other servo moves, digits pressing relentlessly, gouging at the optic, until it comes loose with a hideous pop.

Ravage howls, rage and pain. 

An answering sound of pain comes from the direction of the door, a blurt of synthesised noise from a vocaliser never meant to express emotion. 

“What in the Pit is that fragger doing to Ravage?!”

“Boss! Let us kill him! Please?”

Soundwave in the doorway, the other cassettes crowded by his pedes, expressions of rage and sympathetic pain on every face. 

>Get out of there!< Prowl sends again, urgently.

>I told ya, I’m trying.< Jazz lifts his helm off the floor. Soundwave stands helplessly by the door. He has his cannon lifted to aim at Jazz, but there’s no way he can fire without hitting Ravage, and Ravage is currently limp in pain and shock, in no condition to get out of the way. 

Jazz takes the advantage. Before Ravage can do anything, Jazz pulls free the vibro blade he keeps concealed down the inside of his leg plating and puts it to Ravage’s throat. The cassette tenses, a furious but impotent growl rumbling through his frame.

“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” Jazz says, soft and low, knowing Soundwave will hear it anyway. “My servos are a li’l shaky t’day on account of all the energon loss, an’ I wouldn’t want to cut anythin’ important.” He presses the blade a little harder, letting it sting the plating. Ravage’s growling climbs an octave into something more like a whine.

Soundwave twitches, and Jazz snarls. “I wasn’t just talking to the cat, big bot. Don’t move unless you want me to put him down.”

Soundwave doesn’t move. Frenzy opens his mouthplate to argue, but stops abruptly. Soundwave’s clearly sending orders to stand down.

Jazz smiles, casual and friendly. “Now that weren’t too hard, was it?” 

Soundwave doesn’t reply, faceplate unreadable. It doesn’t matter. He hasn’t looked away from Ravage this whole time. Jazz might as well have him at knifepoint. 

>Good job.< Prowl’s relief is easy to read. >Now you just need to get out of the base. I have a team ready to get you home, but we can’t get inside.

“Now,” Jazz says, slowly getting to his pedes, making sure to pull Ravage up with him and keep the cassette in between him and Soundwave’s canon. “This is how it’s gonna work. You’re gonna let me leave. You’re not going to try to stop me and you’re not going to raise the alarm.” He smiles, coldly. “We all know what will happen if you do.”

Soundwave is still for a moment, canon still fixed on Jazz and Ravage. Jazz’s digits tighten on the knife. He wouldn’t -

“Understood.” Soundwave lowers his helm in submission. “Terms: accepted. Condition: Ravage not damaged any further.”

Jazz doesn’t let his relief show. “I won’t hurt him if he plays nice. Now, put the rest of the cassettes away, and then lead me to a way out. Remember what I said. Don’t stop me, and no alarms.”

Soundwave kneels, opening his chest compartment. “Cassettes: return.”

“But -” 

“You can’t -”

There’s a few squawks of protests from the avians as well.

Soundwave ignores them. “Order given, not a request. Cassettes: return.”

Reluctantly, shooting Jazz hateful glances as they go, the Cassetticons transform and dock. 

Soundwave closes his chest compartment and gets to his pedes. “Soundwave: will -”

“Soundwave! There you are! I need to speak with you about -” Starscream pauses mid-rant as he takes in the scene, door sliding shut behind him. Startled red optics widen, then narrow. “Autobot!” Starscream doesn’t hesitate, priming his wrist blasters and firing.

“No!” Soundwave knocks Starscream aside, sending the blast wide.

“What are you doing?” Starscream screeches, rounding on the communications specialist. “Are you glitched? That’s the Autobot Intelligence Officer! In our base!”

“Autobot: holds Ravage hostage! Autobot: will kill Ravage!” Soundwave argues, voice raising in toneless passion. 

“So?” Starscream sneers, smacking Soundwave aside. “Serves him right for getting in the way. Speaking of which, get out of mine or I’ll shoot you too.”

“Negative!” Soundwave grabs at Starscream, pulling the Seeker half-down under his heavier frame. “Starscream: must not!”

“Get off!” Starscream’s voice raises to an audial-deafening screech as he kicks at Soundwave, attempting to dislodge himself from Soundwave’s clutches. “Let me apprehend the intruder!”

Struggling free, he raises his blaster, aiming for the spot where he’d last seen the Autobot. The now very empty spot. “Blast!” Disgustedly, he kicks at Soundwave again. “Get off me and get to your pedes! We must not let the spy escape!”

Soundwave gets up. “Soundwave: will not endanger cassette safety.”

“Clearly,” Starscream sneers. “Have no fear, I will inform Megatron of your treachery and cowardice, as well as your dismissal of my earlier concerns that there was more to the earlier break-in than we though.” He gives Soundwave one of his most insincere smiles. “You had best hope that despite your efforts, we are successful in apprehending the Autobot this time around. It’s the only thing that might convince Megatron to spare your pitiful life.”

Outside, in the corridor, Jazz finishes hacking the door’s access panel.  The panel flickers, then turns red. Locked. 

"Time to get going." Jazz glances at Ravage, "Sure you don't want to come with me? Pretty sure the Autobots treat their prisoners better than the Deceptions are gonna treat you and your boss." 

Ravage bares his fangs.

"Fair enough," Jazz says, then strikes with the handle of the vibro blade before Ravage manages to gather himself for another attack. Ravage slumps, knocked offline. 

A sudden thud from behind makes Jazz jump. There's another thud, which turns into a hammering. Starscream must have discovered the door is locked. Jazz turns away. No time to waste, the door is thick but won't last long against Starscream's fists. 

> You should kill the cassette. 

Jazz glances at the crumpled cassette frame. Spilled energon, a lurid ghastly pink, streaks the black flanks. > Not a good idea. 

> He's too dangerous to let live, and his loss would cripple Soundwave. This is no time to be squeamish, Jazz. 

Jazz laughs darkly. > You honestly think this is me being squeamish? Thought you knew me better than that, Prowl. 

> Then what is stopping you? 

> Why do you think this corridor ain't crawling with Cons?< Jazz asks, limping to the other side of the corridor. He fumbles for the hatch to the maintenance tunnels, smearing energon against the walls as he does. It won't take a tracker to figure out which way he left. > You think Starscream isn't trying to radio every ‘Con on base? 

> Soundwave's blocking him,< Prowl sends, understanding. 

> He's still holding up his end of the deal.< Jazz finally manages to pry the hatch open and climb in. > What do you think will happen if I break my half? 

> Does he think Megatron will spare him after he lets you escape and they discover what has been done on Cybertron? 

> Don't know, Jazz sends. He stumbles, legs nearly giving way. > Don't care. If Megatron does kill him, he'll be doing us a favour. I hate the bot, but Soundwave is good at his job. 

> Either way, we win, Prowl observes. 

> I'm not home yet.< Jazz reaches the point where he remembers the outside hatch being. It's still unlocked, so either no one found it, or there's a group of guards waiting that are hidden to his sensors. Beyond caring, Jazz opens the hatch and steps out. 

"Jazz!”

Jazz jerks, raising the vibro blade defensively. "Who's -? Raj!" 

The spy materialises from thin air, a look of relief on his normally hard-to-read face.

The blade slips from Jazz’s good hand, falling to the ground with a clatter, and he steps forward, throwing his arms around the spy. "You don't know how good it is to see you." 

"Wish I could say the same," Mirage says, squeezing tight for a klik before pulling away and wrinkling his nasal receptor at Jazz. "You're rather a sight for sore optics."

"Mech, you don't know the half of it," Jazz says, looking ruefully at the dirt and energon he's left on Mirage's plating. It's a sign of how worried Mirage must have been that he's not complaining about Jazz ruining his finish. 

"Tell me back at the base," Mirage says briskly, pulling Jazz by his undamaged servo. "I'd better get you back there before your sparkmate loses it completely." 

"Prowl?" Jazz says, mystified. "What do you mean?" He crouches obediently by the entrance while Mirage checks outside. 

Mirage gives a long suffering vent. "I mean he's been acting very odd. Even for him." 

"Aw, he must be worried about me." 

> Clearly I've been acting more erratically than I’d anticipated. It is hard to balance the bond and still act normal. 

"I wouldn't have expected that kind of reaction from him." Mirage pulls his helm back. "It's clear, we're good to go. The rest of the team will join us once we reach the tree-line and we’re out of the immediate range of the base." He gives Jazz a critical look. "Will you be alright to transform?" 

Jazz grimaces. "I'll have to be." 

Mirage nods, serious, “You will.”

They break cover. 

Immediately, they’re spotted; Soundwave might be occupied, but there are other methods of surveillance. A sentry cries the alarm. Lucky for Jazz and Mirage, there’s a moment of confusion, while the Decepticons try to figure out why the Autobots are appearing from inside their base, which gives them time to switch to their altmodes. 

They speed away, to the sound of Decepticon shouting and peppered blaster fire. Mirage evades the blasts easily, but Jazz isn’t so lucky. He can’t drive at his normal speed and his handling is fragged. He feels his paint bubble and peel as a shot hits. 

Worse, there’s the roar of powerful engines, and shadows fall on the ground, racing over the grass. Seekers.

Jazz swerves wildly to avoid being strafed by Skywarp. >Prowl, I can’t take much more of this. 

>You don’t have to, Prowl promises, just as Jazz spots something shiny in his wing-mirror. 

>Backup. ‘Bout time, Jazz sends, as Sunstreaker races past, Sideswipe hot on his heels. Sunstreaker transforms and launches himself in the air at Skywarp, using his thrusters to boost himself up, while Sideswipe waits below, rocket launcher out and aimed at Thundercracker.

It’s pretty comical to watch a jet try to reverse in midair. Skywarp panics and teleports before Sunstreaker can connect. Seeing his backup disappear, Thundercracker wheels about, circling higher and out of range of Sideswipe, before heading back to the Decepticon base. 

“Thanks for the save,” Jazz says as Sunstreaker lands.

The golden mech gives him a contemptuous look. “Just try to keep up. I’m not towing you back to base.” With that he transforms and speeds off. 

Sideswipe gives him a slightly apologetic look before he transforms. “We’ll try not to go too fast for you.”

>I’m beginnin’ to feel a little less thankful.<

>They’ll get you back to base alive.<

Mirage makes his way over to Jazz’s side. “Come on. Finish the mission.”

Jazz forces himself to start moving again. “Hey, ‘Raj? Think Sunny’ll give me a piggyback if I ask real nice?”

The spy snorts. “I think if you touch him with what’s left of your grubby little servos, he’ll finish the job for the Decepticons.”

“Heh. What’s the deal with gold mechs an’ being totally mental? Y’think there’s somethin’ in the paint?”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yeah. I’ll fill ya in on the ride home...”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so it's been a reaaally long time since I last updated (almost a year, how did that happen?). So, yeah, sorry about that. Real life got too real. To anyone who's stuck around or stumbled across this fic since I last updated, thank you so much. Hopefully this fic is going to be updated a lot more regularly.

Prowl sits at his desk. For once, the paperwork he’s working on isn’t managing to hold his attention. He finds himself reading the same line of Red Alert’s report that he’d read quarter of a joor ago. Venting, he gives up and pushes the file away. He doesn’t even have the split focus of monitoring Jazz’s audiovisuals to blame, since he’d cut the connection once he’d been sure Jazz was safely on his way to the Ark.

He taps his stylus restlessly, then stops, forcing his servo to still. He puts the stylus down neatly, aligning it with the edge of the desk. Jazz. Somehow, even without the link, it's like the other bot’s inside his head. Actually, no. It’s the opposite of that. His servo clenches on the stylus. For some reason, the absence of a connection is bothering him. It’s not that Prowl misses the link - he has the processor-ache to end all processor-aches - and he definitely doesn’t miss navigating the world while having to deal with dual sets of sensory input, but. The bondlink is quiet, closed off. He can’t feel anything of Jazz, other than that he’s alive. The getaway team had taken Jazz to the medbay as soon as they’d got back to the Ark, and now he’s in a private room down in the medbay, being debriefed by Prime. Prowl had gone to try and see him, only to find his way barred by Ratchet.

“He’s in no state for vistors,” the medic had told him firmly. “If Optimus wasn’t Prime, I’d have kicked him out of here already. Jazz needs medical attention and rest.”

Prowl wasn’t entirely sure how Ratchet was planning to keep the saboteur in the medbay long enough to achieve that, but, he supposes, if anyone can, it’s the chief medic.

It’s not that he needs to speak to Jazz - a mission debriefing, for obvious reasons, won’t be necessary, and Prowl has in fact already written the report for Jazz to sign off on - but for whatever reason Prowl still wants to see Jazz.

Prowl should rest. He should finish his paperwork. He shouldn’t be putting the stylus down again, getting up from the desk and leaving his room. There’s no logical reason for him to be doing this.

Prowl checks the time on his display. It’s late, in Earth time. While the Ark is run in shifts, there’s generally less mechs about at this time and he manages to make his way to the medbay without having to stop and talk to anyone.

Through the medbay windows, Prowl can see that Ratchet’s gone home for the night, the lights dimmed. Prowl checks his files quickly to check if anyone else is being kept in for observation, and is relieved when he finds Jazz the only mech on the list. Some other bots had been admitted briefly for minor repairs or treatments, but Jazz is the only Autobot that’s currently out of action. Even a workaholic like Ratchet has to rest sometimes, he tells himself, hitting the panel to open the door.

The door slides open silently, and he steps through quietly. The recharge slabs are empty, the room quiet, filled only with the hum of inactive medical equipment. Prowl makes his way quietly across the bay, towards the door leading to the private rooms.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

Prowl very nearly jumps, servo on the panel that would unlock the door to the room where Jazz is. He turns, and catches sight of the speaker. A blocky white and red frame, but shorter than Ratchet, and with optics that are wide with curiosity, not narrowed in suspicion.

“Are you looking for something?” First Aid asks guilelessly. “Ratchet’s gone, but if you need any medical advice I’m more than qualified!” The mech’s hopeful tone alters as he notices Prowl’s hand still on the panel that opens the door to Jazz’s room. “Oh - you can’t go in there, that’s - well, that room is in use at the moment.”

Prowl moves his hand away from the panel. “This room is in use by Jazz, correct?”

“Ah -” First Aid flounders a little, obviously not expecting Prowl to know who the patient is, “- yes. It is. And I’m afraid he’s not ready for visitors.” First Aid’s tone turns a little firmer towards the end as he finds some authority. Doctor’s orders, clearly. From his file, Prowl remembers thinking that First Aid sounded like a good medic, but inexperienced. Prowl wonders exactly how much Ratchet had told First Aid about why Jazz was in medbay, and decides he’s willing to push it.

“We haven’t met. I’m Prowl, Jazz’s commanding officer.”

First Aid’s optics widen a little. “Oh - I should have realised when I didn’t recognise you. I’m First Aid.”

Prowl nods, “I remember reading your file. Junior medical officer, correct?”

First Aid nods, “Yes. And look, I’m sorry, but Ratchet said Jazz wasn’t allowed visitors.”

“I understand, but I’m not a visitor, I’m his commanding officer.”

“Right, but” First Aid says uncertainly, “he’s not online, so I don’t -”

“I won’t be long,” Prowl says, cutting him off and turning away in dismissal. He hits the panel and enters his authorisation code, hiding his relief as it’s accepted. Ratchet must have forgotten to lock him out, or trusted him enough to think that wasn’t necessary. He can hear First Aid shifting on his pedes, but the mech doesn’t move to stop him.

“Sure. I’ll, ah, I’ll get back to sorting files then…”

Prowl steps into the darkened room, letting the door slide shut behind him. Jazz is a small form lying still on a medberth, visor dark. Prowl is illogically disappointed. It makes sense that Jazz is not online; First Aid had warned him and Prowl had been in his head after all, he’d felt how much damage Jazz had taken. Still, it feels wrong somehow to see Jazz like this. The saboteur is never quiet, never still.

Prowl takes a step closer to the medberth. Jazz doesn’t sit up, or react at all. Prowl’s at a loss for once on how to proceed. He doesn’t even know why he came here. He should go, before First Aid works up the nerve to kick him out.

Prowl doesn’t leave. He takes another step closer and looks down at the still form of his sparkmate, and feels his own spark contract in its casing. Jazz is a mess. The matte black stealth paint peeling off in strips makes him look like he’s caught some kind of organic disease, an impression which isn’t helped by the patchwork of welts and welds where Ratchet’s had to practically patch his chassis back together. Prowl reaches out, an instinctive action that bypasses his processor entirely, then hesitates. Every part of Jazz looks so damaged. Prowl settles on reaching for Jazz’s left servo. Ratchet’s replaced the digits that Ravage had severed, although the replacements are still unpainted metal.

The door slides open behind him. Prowl spins, dropping Jazz’s servo. “First Aid -” his excuses die somewhere between his processor and his mouth.

Ratchet meets his optics, “It’s not First Aid.”

  


Prowl sits on a stool next to Jazz’s berth as Ratchet checks Jazz’s readings, still voicing his reproaches in a non-stop stream. “- thought you were meant to be the practical one, but then I catch you sneaking in here like some kind of sparkcrossed idiot. I try and take a shift off, I walk out the medbay and I get a comm telling me -”

“I was simply checking on his status,” Prowl mutters stiffly, unwilling to take his eyes off the berth and Jazz’s frame..

“Mech, if he wasn’t alright I would tell you,” Ratchet says, tone exasperated. “But he’s fine. He’s so fine, I was happy to leave him in First Aid’s care.”

“Did I disturb him?” Prowl asks, reluctantly giving up on any hope that he could pass this visit off as anything other than an illogical need for reassurance.

“No, you didn’t disturb him, he’s under deep sedation. Deep enough he couldn’t wake himself up if he wanted.”

Prowl catches the satisfaction in Ratchet’s tone, and wonders what trouble Jazz had caused the medic in the past to warrant that. “Fine. Now I’ve seen him for myself, I’ll leave.”

“Not so fast,” Ratchet says, briskly moving round the berth to press his servo against Prowl’s pauldron, pushing him down. “We need to talk.”

Prowl lets out a vent, frustrated. “No, we don’t.”

Ratchet makes a noise like gears grating. “Don’t make me get my spanner.” Ratchet pulls up another stool and drags it round to face Prowl before sitting. “Now, let’s talk. What were you doing here, Prowl?”

Prowl holds himself still. “I told you, I was checking on him.”

“In what capacity?” Ratchet asks immediately. “Because you told First Aid you were here as his CO, but when I walked in…”

Prowl doesn’t shift in his seat, but it’s a close thing.

“Prowl,” Ratchet begins, and Prowl can hear the compassion in the medic’s voice now, under the grumpiness, “were you here in a professional or a personal capacity?”

Prowl stays silent.

Ratchet vents. “Look, Prowl. I know you like to play your cards close to your chest, to borrow a human axiom, but I’m your doctor. Anything you tell me will be held in confidence.”

Prowl hesitates but Ratchet had already proved himself able and willing to listen, and it’s not like Prowl has anyone else he can confide in. “Both. I came here in both capacities.” It’s hard to admit.

Ratchet reaches over and lays a servo on Prowl’s arm. “I thought so.”

Prowl twitches. There’s too much sympathy in the medic’s tone for his liking.

As if sensing Prowl’s discomfort, Ratchet removes his servo. “Do you want to talk about this?”

To Prowl’s relief, the sympathy in the medic’s tone is gone, replaced by a clinical neutrality that Prowl finds more reassuring. “No.”

Ratchet huffs a little. “Well, there’s a surprise. I won’t force you, Prowl, but -”

“I don’t want to, but I agree we should talk,” Prowl cuts him off. He looks at Jazz. “This has never been about what I want.”

There’s a pause where Ratchet obviously contemplates saying something to try and comfort Prowl and just as obviously discards that impulse as misdirected. Instead, Ratchet regards him over steepled servos and says something that doesn’t make Prowl feel any better but is true. “You’ve been emotionally compromised.”

Prowl grimaces.

“It’s not something you want to face,” Ratchet continues, undeterred. “I understand that. But you can’t ignore it.”

Prowl forces his expression back to neutrality. “Believe me, ignoring it isn’t an option.”

“Maybe you can’t ignore the bond itself, but you can certainly avoid thinking about the implications.”

“We’re managing to work together so far.”

Ratchet inclines his head. “You are.” He studies Prowl. “Have you two discussed your future together?”

Prowl almost laughs at that. “Ratchet, what future? We’re been at war for four million years, and that doesn’t look set to change anytime soon.”

“Maybe not soon,” Ratchet admits. “Still, it will. One day. What then?”

Prowl raises an optical ridge, “I’m not in the habit of indulging in pointless speculation.”

Ratchet snorts, “Believe me, no one is accusing you of otherwise. But indulge me.”

Prowl shrugs a doorwing. “Fine. I used to be an Enforcer. I suppose I’d go back to that, if that remained an option.”

“I don’t mean what job do you see yourself doing, or not just that. What do you want from a post-war life?”

“You really don’t know me that well.”

Ratchet huffs, “Yes, you’re a workaholic, I’ve heard, trust me.” The medic vents. “What about Jazz? Do you know if he has plans - dreams, if you’re being cynical - for post-war life?”

“No,” Prowl admits.

Ratchet gives him a look. “Maybe you should find out. Like it or not, your lives are tied together. It’s time to stop ignoring that and start doing what you do best, planning.”

“Perhaps.”

Ratchet gives him a look that says the medic is not convinced, but knows he’s not going to get any further. “Fine. Now get out of my medbay.”

Prowl gets up to leave. “Will you let me know -”

“If there’s any change in Jazz’s condition, I’ll comm you. He’ll be ready for visitors tomorrow, and don’t worry, after Optimus, you’re at the front of the queue.”

Prowl inclines his helm. “Thank you.”

Ratchet waves a servo. “If you want to thank me, you’ll think about what I’ve said.”

Prowl opens the door and leaves. He absently notes First Aid hurriedly duck down behind the desk, but doesn’t pause. To his deep annoyance, he finds himself… distracted. Ratchet’s given him plenty to think over.

He makes his way back to his room, and takes a seat at his desk, though he has no intention of finishing his reports. Ratchet has asked him what kind of future he and Jazz had together. It was true; he hadn’t bothered to speculate on what life would be like in the event the war came to an end and they had won. The probability of that happening at all simply wasn’t high enough to bother. No, what was suddenly occupying Prowl wasn’t some improbable future he and Jazz might have to one day navigate, it was the realisation he didn’t know anything about Jazz’s past.

What had the other mech done before the war? It wasn’t a question most people bothered asking these days. They’d been at war long enough that most of the time it was an irrelevant question. Regardless of what a mech’s occupation had been pre-war, he’d had to become a soldier. After all, Sunstreaker had once been an artist, not a fighter renowned for his brutality on both sides of the war.

Maybe it was irrelevant what occupation Jazz’d had pre-war. Or maybe it was the answer behind the Spec Op’s mech’s unique upgrades.

Prowl’s HUD tells him he was due to start charging over a joor ago. His processor still feels like he’s just been the victim of a particularly clumsy hack, but he has no intention of lying down on his berth and going into recharge. Grabbing his tablet, he pulls up Jazz’s files. He’s already read them of course, before he even came to Earth, but perhaps there was something he missed the first time round.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thank you to everyone so far for reading, and leaving kudos or comments. It's been great to see so many people I remember still interested in this fic after all this time. I really appreciate all the amazing support I've received for this fic, and I know I wouldn't have gotten this far without it, so thank you all once more, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Prowl dismisses the fourth pop-up from his HUD warning him that he’s gone too long without recharging. According to his display, he’s worked through the night. He vents in frustration and lets his tablet fall with a clatter onto his desk, resting his helm wearily in his servos.

Nothing. There’d been nothing in Jazz’s file to give Prowl any clue as to the saboteur's past. Jazz’s file reads like the most bare bones, sanitised military record that Prowl can imagine. All he’s learnt from the file is that Jazz joined up after the war broke out as part of the rank and file, and worked his way up to command over the course of a few years, a feat that is as remarkable as it is strange.

On record, Jazz had come out of nowhere. If Jazz had worked his way up to command over the course of centuries or even decades, Prowl could have dismissed it as simple talent or luck. But over the span of a few short years? Even with the desperation of the first few years of the war, no one rose that high that fast. Who was Jazz?

Prowl leans back in his chair. That was a question he felt no closer to answering than he had at the start of the night.

He turns his optics off for a second, allowing himself a brief reprieve from the constant influx of information that his tacnet generates from its continually updating analysis of his surroundings. He wants to charge, but -

His commlink flashes an alert. Incoming call from Ratchet. Prowl takes it.

“Prowl, I said I’d let you know when Jazz was awake and ready for visitors.”

“On my way.”

Jazz looks up as Prowl enters the room, visor bright. “Hey Prowl. ‘Bout time you showed up.”

Prowl pauses in the doorway, optics narrowing as he takes in the energon candies on the table next to the medberth and the rather battered bunch of earth flora lying beside the candies. “Who’s been by? Ratchet said he’d let me know as soon as you were awake.”

“And I did,” says Ratchet, coming up behind Prowl, prompting him to actually enter the room. The medic follows, moving past Prowl to the foot of Jazz’s berth, where he checks Jazz’s charts. “Optimus has been by, and Mirage and Bee managed to sneak in.” He levels a look that’s more amused than exasperated at Jazz. “Somehow.”

Jazz raises a hand to his bumper. “Why, Ratchet, I don’t know what you’re accusin’ me off.”

“Hmm.” Ratchet says, looking down at Jazz’s chart. “I’m sure. Anyway, you’re not cleared to leave the medbay yet, so don’t get too excited, but after Prowl you can officially have your friends come visit.”

“When can I leave?” Jazz says, one leg bouncing.

Ratchet snorts, “Not yet, but youre not about to expire without immediate medical attention so I’ll leave you to it.” He flips the chart shut and leaves, hitting the door shut behind him.

Jazz looks up at Prowl, one corner of his mouth curling in a smile. “So I hear you tried to visit me.”

Prowl busies himself taking a seat. “Ratchet tell you that?”

“I have my sources.”

Prowl raises an optical ridge but decides not to push it any further. “How are you feeling?”

Jazz shrugs. “Fine. Bored, already.”

“How did the debriefing with Prime go?”

“Good, I gave him the files I managed to download off Shockwave’s computer before Sunstorm turned up. He’s passed them on to Jack an’ Percy so they’re probably having a party.”

Prowl nods. “Is there a chance they could use the files to figure how Shockwave’s machine would have worked?”

Jazz shrugs. “You’re askin’ the wrong bot. I got what I could get, but there was a lot missin’. Still, they’re both geniuses, so maybe.”

There’s a lull in the conversation as Prowl runs out of work-related conversation. For a mech that sometimes never shuts up, Jazz seems to have no problem with sitting quietly for a moment, a lazy smile still playing on his faceplate.

“You’re looking better,” Prowl says, abruptly. It’s true; the welds are starting to look more integrated, less raised and livid. The damaged and peeling paint had been stripped from Jazz’s chassis, revealing the dull grey of the metal underneath. Prowl raises his optics to meet Jazz’s visor, aware he’s been staring.

The half-smile Jazz has been wearing has morphed into a full-on smirk. “Like what you see, huh?”

Prowl gives Jazz a severe look. “Not how I meant it.”

Jazz laughs, wriggling onto his side. “Mm. Sure. So, why were you tryin’ to get into my room late last night anyway?”

Prowl narrows his optics. “I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

“Oh yeah?” Jazz asks casually, “what about?”

“Your background. Where you’re from, what you did before the war.”

Jazz doesn’t stop smiling. “That’s classified.”

Prowl nods, unsurprised by the non-answer. “Seems like most things in your record are. You don’t even have a city of origin listed in your file.”

Jazz lets the smile drop. “You been looking in my file, Prowl? What’s the sudden interest?”

Prowl leans forward in his seat. “Because I don’t know you, Jazz. I don’t know who you are, I don’t know where you come from.”

Jazz doesn't back down, mimicing Prowl by leaning in. “Why does it matter where I’m from or what I did? I’m an Autobot. I joined up as soon as the war broke out. I’ve been fighting same side as you for four million years. Why does it matter who I used to be?”

Prowl is aware of the diminishing distance between them, Jazz leaning in as if he can convince Prowl through physical proximity. The air between them feels oddly charged. Prowl wants to lean in, close the distance. He sits back.

Jazz vents, a frustrated sound. “You can’t make this easy, can you?”

Prowl’s aware of his fans humming audibly. An autonomic reaction to arousal, he thinks analytically. He stifles his embarrassment. “You mean, I won't be distracted.”

“Would a little distraction be that terrible?”

Prowl answers in a level tone. “I'm sure it wouldn’t.” He lets some of the heat he can't voice into his gaze.

Surprised, Jazz meets his gaze. There’s no answering hum from Jazz's fans, but Prowl catches the way light flares for a second behind that visor. Satisfied that whatever is between hem isn't one-sided, Prowl relaxes infinitesimally.

Jazz wriggles away sulkily. “Optimus trusts me. Why can't that be enough for you?”

Prowl gets up. “As we've already established, Prime doesn't always have the best judgement. He lets his spark get the best of him.”

“An’ maybe it's true what they say,” Jazz retorts. “Prowl doesn't have a spark, he's just a computer attached to a pretty frame.”

Prowl’s doors flinch, control slipping momentarily. “I should go.”

“Prowl -”

Prowl almost collides with Ratchet on his way out.

“Leaving so soon?” Ratchet asks, tone surprised. “I wasn't coming to kick you out.”

“No, I was already leaving,” Prowl says. “I need to get back to the office.”

Ratchet glances from him to Jazz. Prowl doesn't see whatever expression Jazz is wearing, but there must be something of the argument they've his had showing because Ratchet doesn’t push it. “I see,” the medic says, not sounding happy.

Prowl inclines his helm and leaves.

“- and that’s when he said, I thought you were going to do something crazy, and I told him, watch this!”

The whole room bursts into laughter, Bumblebee falling against Trailbreaker, shoulders shaking. Even Mirage is cracking a smile. “Why did he think we were called transformers?”

Smokescreen shrugs, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Prowl waits in the doorway until they notice him.

“Oh, hello,” Smokescreen says, still smiling. “We were just talking about this one time on Monacus, when I-”

“Personal anecdotes can wait,” Prowl cuts him off tersely, “we have work to do.”

The room quietens abruptly as the team notices Prowl’s mood.”

Satisfied he has their attention, Prowl gives them thieir assignment. “Today, I want you each to partner with someone from the other department. Spec ops, you’ll be briefing your Tac counterpart on yesterday’s mission, its execution, its outcome, explaining your personal involvement with each part of the mission. Tac, your job is to turn this into a coherent briefing, to evaluate the mission's success, your counterpart’s personal performance, and give strategic recommendations for future missions that may follow similar objectives.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Mirage says, lolling in his chair with aristocratic ease.

“Sounds like you lot get the easy job,” Smokescreen grumbles.

“Let me make this clear,” Prowl says coldly, “this isn't an opportunity to socialise. If you're incapable of focusing in the pairs you choose yourselves,I will reassign you.”

He ignores the looks that are traded, taking a seat at his own desk as the room sort themselves into groups.  

“Well,” Mirage murmurs to Smokescreen at a volume that’s not quite below Prowl’s hearing range. “Someone got up on the wrong side of the berth.”

For some reason, that prompts the room to break out in almost stifled snickers.

Prowl looks up, suspicious.

“That’s what happens, when you’re not used to sharing,” Smokescreen mutters back, slyly.

More muffled laughter.

Prowl gives up any attempt to get on with his work. “What’s funny?”

The room goes silent. Prowl looks up. “Anyone care to explain the joke?”

Bumblebee giggles, a little nervous, “It’s not a joke, really. I - I mean, we’re just teasing you, Prowl.”

Prowl looks at Bumblebee until the nervous giggling stops. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bumblebee looks to Mirage for support, but the spy jerks his head to the side. “Oh no, you’re on your own here.”

Trailbreaker takes pity on his partner. “We just, we heard about you and Jazz.”

Prowl’s helm snaps up, pinning Trailbreaker with a stare. “What.”

“Oh for -” Mirage cuts himself off. “He meant we heard about your little late night visit to see Jazz last night.”

Prowl’s cables loosen by degrees. Not the sparkbond. No one is talking about the sparkbond. He frowns, “How does all of you know about that anyway?”

Everyone exchanges glances, but no one speaks. Prowl’s processor-ache hasn’t gotten any better in the last joor, and he’s getting sick of not knowing things. “One of you is going to tell me.”

Mirage looks around at his friends, all of whom are studiously avoiding making eye contact, and rolls his optics, “Fine. But don’t shoot the messenger. Hound told me.”

Prowl’s optical ridges both raise simultaneously. He wasn’t expecting that. “And how does he know?”

Mirage shrugs one pauldron. “He said he heard it from Inferno.”

“I heard it from Blue,” Bumblebee pipes up.

Smokescreen exchanges a glance with Trailblazer, “We heard it from Tracks.”

“So everyone is talking about it.” Prowl can feel his cables tensing up again.”

“Pretty much,” Smokescreen says, having the decency to sound somewhat apologetic.

“The point of origin of the rumor is unclear, but one thing is not,” Mirage says. “Someone saw you.”

Prowl thinks back to wide blue optics, all innocent and curious. “And I know who.” He ignores Mirage's obvious interest, and raises a servo to his helm, rubbing at the metal just below his chervon in an attempt to alleviate a little of the pain. “This is a misunderstanding.”

Trailblazer lifts a servo. “So you didn't sneak into Jazz's medical room last night?”

“I didn't sneak,” Prowl says curtly. “I went to pay a visit as a professional courtesy.”

“In the middle of the night,” Mirage says drily.

“I lost track of time.”

Four faces look at him with varying degrees of belief on their faceplates.

“I advise you all not to listen to rumours,” Prowl says, although without much hope.

“Sure,” Smokescreen says, glancing round the room.

After that, the team settle down more or less and get on with their work. For once, Prowl is the one finding it hard to focus. He'd already written most of his mission report yesterday, but of course, without Jazz he’s not able to complete it, and even if Ratchet would allow it he's in no mood to go back to the medbay.

He checks his commline and messages. There are two private comms from Jazz. He ignores them. No one else has messaged him. He spends a joor or so unenthusiastically going through what's left of the backlog of reports, but more than once he finds his attention slipping.

After the fourth time he catches himself staring blankly at the screen of his padd, he gives up on getting anymore work done that day. In the privacy of his own processor he can admit he's overdone it. His system is running on minimal charge, his helm feels like any klik now it’s going to split open, and his argument with Jazz is still running through his analytics. Jazz had reacted illogically to his questioning. Enforcer logic suggested that a mech who'd done nothing wrong should have nothing to hide. Jazz had requested that Prowl trust him, but clearly didn't trust Prowl enough to tell him about his past. Yes, Prowl confirms, reassured, Jazz had behaved illogically.

But then Prowl had also behaved illogically. He frowns, displeased, but it's undeniable. Not just the sneaking into Jazz's room, but his reasoning for wanting to know about Jazz’s past in the first place. As Jazz had said, what did it matter now. As he himself had said to Ratchet, they were at war now, and had been for so long he found it illogical to plan for a future where they weren't at war. If it was illogical to care and plan for a future that may never come to pass, was it any more logical to worry about a past that grew more distant every day?

They had both behaved illogically, Prowl concludes, staring down at Red Alert’s report unseeingly. And therefore the blame for their argument lay with both of them. It was illogical, then, for Prowl to still feel as hurt and angry as he did.

Illogical of him, but that seemed to be becoming a habit.

Prowl gets up and quickly tidies his desk, before pushing his chair neatly under it.

Smokescreen looks up. “Taking a break, boss?” The diversionary tactician looks mildly surprised, but then it is entirely unheard of for Prowl to take an actual break.

“Finishing early for the day.”

That gets the attention of the rest of the room.

“Are you feeling alright?” Mirage asks frankly.

Prowl raises an optical ridge. “Fine. I simply cannot get any further with this report until Jazz is back on duty.”

“Are you going to go to the medbay to see Jazz then?”

“I doubt Ratchet would approve of Jazz doing work while he's meant to be recuperating.”

“You could always just pay him a social visit,” Bumblebee suggests, in an innocent tone Prowl doesn't quite trust.

Prowl doesn’t bother to deign Bumblebee’s suggestion with a response. He’s sure whatever he says would be taken and used against him anyway. Nodding goodbye, he leaves the office and heads toward his quarters, thinking longingly of his berth. He steadfastly doesn't make eye contact with anyone he passes in the hallway, less eager than ever to be engaged in small talk. With a sense of relief, he reaches his door.

The relief lasts until the door opens, to reveal Jazz sitting at his desk.

Prowl hits the door shut immediately. “What are you doing here?’

Jazz looks up, vizor glowing a softer blue than Prowl is used to seeing it. He’s had a fresh coat of paint, but Prowl can still see where he’s been repaired. “Can we talk?”

“How did you get past Ratchet?” Prowl demands, pacing. “Did anyone see you on your way here?”

“I didn’t sneak out,” Jazz says, tracking his movement bemusedly. “Ratchet discharged me. And I don’t know if anyone saw me, why?”

Prowl sinks onto his berth, exhausted. “Because there’s some kind of rumour going around that you and I are - involved.”

Jazz groans. “Is that what Bee and Raj were talkin’ about? Those fraggers. Look, don’t worry -”

“Don’t tell me not to worry,” Prowl snaps. “What if they find out about the sparkbond?”

“How would they find out?” Jazz asks calmly. “Don’t worry, Prowl. It’s a rumour. Mechs’ll talk for a few days, and then Sides’ll scratch Sunny’s paint, or someone will spot Raj and Hound on one of their little ‘nature walks’ and then mechs’ll talk ‘bout that instead.”

“Still, we shouldn’t do anything to give any credence to the rumours.” Prowl stands, “You should leave.”

Jazz holds up his hands, “Look, I get it, you’re mad at me -”

“I am not!”

Jazz’s mouth turns up in a sad smile. “Sure, you’re not.”

Prowl’s servos clench, and he looks away, ashamed of his outburst.

“I’ll get out in a second,” Jazz says softly, “I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry for what I said about you being cold, that was out of order of me. I was just… lashing out.”

Prowl slowly turns back. “I should apologise as well,” he says stiffly. “I pushed you. I treated you like a suspect.”

Jazz’s tires raise in a shrug. “You don’t trust me. Which is fair,” Jazz adds, helm tilting down.

Prowl sits back down on his berth. “No it’s not. I…” he hesitates. “I trust you, Jazz. Not without reservation, but I trust that even when you keep things from me that we’re working towards the same goal.”

Jazz looks up, visor glowing brighter than Prowl had seen it since he’d entered the room. “I trust you, too.”

Prowl looks into Jazz’s visor. “Conditionally.”

“Conditionally,” Jazz confirms, lips curling up like it’s a private joke between them. His gaze lingers for a moment, before he breaks eye contact. “So, are we good?”

Prowl nods. “We’re good.” His optics reset as his HUD flashes up another low-charge warning. “Now, you really do need to leave.”

“Tired?” Jazz asks. “Sorry, that’s probably partially my fault. Ratchet said I’m healing a lot faster’n normal, said it’s probably the bond. So, thanks and sorry if you feel like slag.”

“Glad I could help,” Prowl says drily. “See you tomorrow.”

“Sweet dreams,” Jazz drawls, slipping out of the door.


	18. Chapter 18

“- nanocrystalline structure acts as a superconductor -”

“- by harnessing the emissions we could produce an energy yield of sixty-seven percent -”

Jazz listens, amused, as Percy and Jack talk over each other. It’s pretty normal to see Jack this excited, the engineer's audial fins flashing quickly, but Jazz has never seen Percy like this. He glances to Prowl and asks softly, “You understand any o’ what they're saying?”

“Not a word,” Prowl replies, just as softly, before asking louder, “What does this mean?”

Jack and Percy stop talking and exchange looks. “It works,” Wheeljack says simply. “Shockwave designed a working energon converter that runs off a renewable source that can be harvested on Cybertron.”

“And you can build it?” Prowl asks intently.

Wheeljack and Percy exchange another look. “To put it simply,” Perceptor says, with a wince, “yes -”

“-and no,” Wheeljack finishes.

Prowl crosses his arms over his bumper, adopting a stance that Jazz has privately labelled his ‘cop posture.’ No nonsense, all business, tell me the truth and don't even think of lying. It gets results. “Which is it? Yes or no?”

Percy looks frustrated, but Jack is the one to speak. “Theoretically, it’s possible. In practice, we don't have the resources.”

Prowl’s servos clench into fists, bit that's the only sign of disappointment the tactician makes. “What resources do we need?”

“A frag load,” Wheeljack says promptly.

Prowl looks irritated by the lack of precision in the engineer's answer.

“About forty thousand energon cubes,” Percy says dryly.

Jazz winces, “Yeah I’d call that a frag load.”

A frag load might actually be an understatement. Forty thousand cubes were enough to keep the entire Autobot faction on earth adequately fuelled for half a year.

“Then there's the actual materials needed to build the generator,” Percy continues.

Jazz grimaces, “Let me guess. They’re expensive.”

“And rare,” Wheeljack adds. “Some of them can't be found on Earth at all.” He looks wistful for a moment. “Almost makes me wish you hadn’t blown up Shockwave’s.”

“Except that then we’d have a working energon converter in the hands of the Decepticons,” Prowl reminds him tersely.

Wheeljack’s vents flutter in a vent. “I know, I know. It’s just frustrating.”

“Indeed,” Prowl says, and Jazz can hear the tactician’s own frustration packed into that one word.

They all pause for a moment to consider the obstacles they’re going to have to find a way to overcome. Naturally, it’s Jazz who breaks the gloom. “Come on then guys, who wants to tell Optimus we need to convince our human allies to supply us with an extra few tens of thousands of energon cubes?”

It’s a rhetorical question, there’s already a meeting scheduled in four hours time to discuss everything. Prowl and Jazz leave Wheeljack and Perceptor in their laboratory, still talking over each other about possible modifications and improvements that can be made on Shockwave’s design. The door slides shut behind them, abruptly cutting off all sound and leaving them standing in the silence of the corridor. Jazz shifts on his pedes and decides to test the truce between them, “Got a few hours before the meeting. Want to go for a drive?”

Prowl resets his optics, a look of surprise on his normally impassive faceplates. “Where?”

Jazz favours Prowl with a grin. “That’s not important. I just want to get out and burn some rubber.” His engine revs a little, under his hood.

Prowl’s faceplates shift into a frown, but it’s more puzzled than annoyed. “And you’re asking me to accompany you for what reason?”

“Why, the pleasure o’ your company, my mech.”

Now Prowl looks uncomfortable. “If you’re looking for company, I’m not sure I’m the best choice. Why not ask Mirage?”

Jazz prods him in the chestplate, “Because I want to hang out with you. ‘Sides, when was the last time you took your altmode out for a spin?”

Prowl hesitates, uncharacteristically.

  
“Aha!” Jazz continues to prod him, triumphantly. “That means, not in for-fragging-ever, doesn’t it?”

“It has been a while,” Prowl acknowledges.

“Slag, what a waste, an altmode like yours an’ you don’t even use it.”

Prowl’s optical ridges raise slightly. “My altmode serves its function adequately. My primary coding is to pursue criminals.”

“Sure, but do you never just go for a drive for fun?” Jazz starts pacing, restless, adding in a couple of skips and twirls. “C’mon, Prowl. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shinin’, birds singin’... you’ve never even really gotten to see Earth in all her glory.”

“You’ve only just been released from the medbay,” Prowl reminds him.

“All the more reason to go for a test drive. I know my rootmode is fine, but I should check there ain’t any problems with my altmode. Please,” Jazz wheedles, shameless. “It’ll be good for you too, Prowl. You spend too much time cooped up in that office of yours.”

“Our office,” Prowl reminds him. “But you have a point. Fine. I will join you on a brief excursion.”

Jazz grins, brilliantly, and starts to move in the direction of the main entrance. “No changin’ your mind, now.”

“I rarely do,” Prowl replies, following after him at a more sedate pace.

They walk quietly down the corridor together, or at least Prowl does. Jazz hums to himself, a tune from the latest music package Blaster had compiled for him. Unconsciously, he falls into rhythm with the song, skipping and stepping in time with the beat.

“You’re in a good mood,” Prowl observes.

Jazz turns back to face Prowl, walking backwards and ignoring the other mech’s look of disapproval. “I am. Aren’t you? Our plan worked, we destroyed Shockwave’s generator an’ we got the plans to build our own. I’d call that a mission success.”

“A temporary success,” Prowl reminds him, optics shifting distractedly from Jazz to the corridor. “Jazz, watch where -”

Jazz deftly takes the turn, without missing a beat. “Don’t worry about me, Prowl, I could run through this place blindfolded.”

“Please don’t,” Prowl says drily, “Sideswipe and Sunstreaker don’t need any encouragement.”

Jazz laughs. “I see you’ve run into those two.”

“Run into is the correct way of putting it.”

Jazz flashes Prowl a smile, “Don’t take it personal. They barely listen to Optimus.” He steps back, twisting to face forward, and pauses, falling into step with Prowl. “So why aren't you pleased? Your plan worked.”

Prowl glances at him. “Your injuries were worse than anticipated. Also, retrieving the converter’s blueprints wasn't part of my plan.”

“Aw,” Jazz says, teasing, “so what are you more upset about? The fact that I got hurt or the fact I didn't stick to the plan.”

“Your injuries were a result of not following the plan,” Prowl replies. “If you had left the blueprints, you would have had time to hide from Sunstorm.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Jazz says, shrugging carelessly. “I was stuck in a room with twenty tonnes of crazy, a bomb, and only one exit.”

“You would have escaped,” Prowl says, with certainty.

“Probably,” Jazz admits, “I am good. But you have to admit, lover, the pay-off was worth it.”

Prowl makes a noncommittal noise in response.

They turn into the main corridor, falling quiet as they walk past other Autobots. Jazz gives everyone he sees a smile, ignoring any surprise when they see who he’s walking with. Beside him, Jazz feels Prowl tense, door wings hiking slightly higher in a defensive tell that Jazz knows Prowl would hate him noticing. “Relax.” Jazz mutters, still smiling. “Just act natural an’ keep walking.”

“They’re staring.”

“Let ‘em.” Jazz says, waving his fingers at Windcharger, who’s so busy staring he ends up colliding with Tracks. “C’mon.” Grabbing at Prowl’s servo, Jazz tugs him towards the entrance as the sounds of an argument break out behind them.

Prowl pulls his servo free, but continues to follow him. “I don’t understand,” the tactician admits, uneasily. “I’d expected us to garner some attention in light of recent rumours, but this…”

Jazz shrugs, not surprised. “Well, it’s you ‘nd me.”

“Your point?”

“We’re like day and night.”

Prowl’s optics reset in confusion.

Jazz grins. “Black and white.”

Prowl’s optical ridges narrow in a frown. “We’re both black and white,” he points out.

Jazz vents dramatically. “Prowl, my mech, you’re missing the point. We’re complete opposites.”

Prowl’s quiet for a moment as he apparently processes Jazz’s explanation. “I still don’t understand why that means everyone is staring.”

Jazz turns to face Prowl again, walking backwards as easily as forwards. “People don’t expect us to get along.”

“Are we getting along?”

Jazz shrugs, “We haven’t argued yet today, that’s probably a record.” He shoots Prowl a grin and is gratified when the tactician’s lips twitch in what might be the smallest of smiles in return. He turns to face forward just as they reach the main entrance. The twins are currently on sentry duty, possibly as some form of punishment, although Jazz isn’t sure who exactly is being punished. They’re both lounging against the entranceway with matching moody expressions that brighten up as they see Jazz and Prowl approaching.

“Well, well, look who it is,” Sunstreaker drawls, looking them up and down appraisingly.

Sideswipe grins, leaning over his brother’s pauldron. “Jazz. Looking a bit less dented.”

“Ratchet’s pretty practised at hammering out my bumper,” Jazz replies, equally casual, “Maybe you should drop by the medbay yourself, look like you’ve got a couple o’ dings in your platin’.”

Sides’ optics flare a little wider at the mention of the Hatchet, perhaps the one ‘bot on the Ark the two frontliners actually have a healthy amount of fear and respect for, other than Optimus, and quickly turns the questioning back onto Jazz. “What are you two doing out of the medbay anyway? Sneaking out instead of in this time?”

Jazz is close enough to Prowl to catch the involuntary twitch at the blatant reference to Prowl’s late night visit. Stepping forward, he draws the twins attention onto himself. “Just goin’ for a little drive to check out the repairs. Prowl’s keeping an eye on me as a favour.” He doesn’t mention who the favour is for, just lets the twins assume it’s Ratchet. “There a problem with that, mechs?” He asks the question lightly, still smiling, still easy friendly Jazz.

Sides is still grinning, hanging over his brother and ready to continue teasing, but Sunstreaker’s always been the smarter of the two. The more psychotic, but also smarter. “Leave it, Sideswipe,” Sunstreaker says suddenly, shrugging his brother off him irritably. The golden frontliner jerks his head towards the entrance. “You both have full security clearance to come and go as you like.”

“Good answer,” Jazz says, keeping Sunny a friendly slap on the arm as he passes. Sunstreaker jumps; most bots would have lost a hand, but he has the sense not to lash out at Jazz. Everyone likes Jazz, enough that most of the time they forget or never really learn how dangerous he really is. Sunstreaker, while not part of the Spec Ops division, lacking the control to temper his violent and sadistic streak, has provided back-up for Jazz enough times to have some idea of what Jazz is like in the field. He knows enough to know when to shut up, something his brother hasn’t yet learned.

“Have a good time,” Sides calls after them cheekily, “don’t stay out too late!”

Prowl doesn’t quite storm away, but it’s a close thing.

Jazz has to hurry to catch him up, and by the time he’s caught up, the other mech is transforming, clearly not in the mood for conversation. Jazz follows suit, taking his transformation a little slower than usual, testing for any protest from his struts, and finding none. Some of his cables twinge though, and by the time he’s finished changing, Prowl is ready and waiting.

>Everything alright?< Prowl sends.

>Fine, just a little sore. Let’s go.

Jazz takes off without further pause, engine revving as he shifts into gear and peels down the dirt track. He hears Prowl’s own powerful engine as the other mech follows, close on his tailpipe.

>You’re fast.

>I was built to chase.

Jazz laughs over the commlink at that. >See if you can catch me, then.

Jazz cuts the commlink and speeds up. For a moment, he almost loses Prowl in the dust clouds kicked up by his tires, but then he reaches the road. With the asphalt beneath him, he drives. He catches sight of Prowl in his mirrors, behind him, but catching up, and he puts on another burst of speed. Jazz is fast, faster than Prowl, but he can’t lose Prowl on the open road, with no side roads or alleys to turn off onto, and Prowl was made for pursuit. Jazz feels a giddy thrill at the sight of the ex-Enforcer in his rear mirror, following Jazz with single-minded patience. Part of Jazz wonders what it would be like to actually be chased by Prowl, if perhaps he could catch Jazz. Jazz puts on another burst of speed at that, denial coursing through his fuel lines. Never, no one caught Jazz, no matter how fast or determined they were.

>Jazz, turn around.

>What’s the matter, can’t keep up?”

>I have the endurance, we don’t have the time.

Jazz checks his internal chronometer and is surprised by how much time has passed. >We’ve got a little longer.

>Not if we want to rinse off as well before the meeting.

Jazz checks how much distance there is between them, before executing a tight turn in the road. >A little dust never hurt anyone.

If Prowl is impressed by Jazz’s handling, he doesn’t show it, just falls into place at Jazz’s side with a less flashy turn as they begin to head back. Jazz doesn’t bother racing ahead this time, in no hurry to get back, meeting or not. >In a better mood now?

>Yes, actually. Thank you for the invitation.

>Anytime. So what was grinding your gears earlier anyway?

>You called the mission a success. In terms of the objectives of the mission itself, you were correct. We accomplished what we set out to do, we destroyed the converter. But that was only ever going to be a setback. Shockwave can rebuild, and next time I doubt the converter will be so easy to locate or destroy. We’re no closer to winning the war than we were at the start of the mission.

>Not true, Jazz argues immediately. >I got the plans, remember? Percy and Jack said they can build the converter.

Prowl’s engine growls, and for a moment the tactician pulls ahead. >And where are we going to get the resources for the converter? Do you really think the humans will be as generous enough to provide us with the forty thousand extra energon cubes needed for its construction? Let alone the other materials?

>And where do you think Shockwave is going to get those energon cubes? Jazz counters. >We don’t know how long it took the Decepticons to ship enough over for him to build the converter the first time, but it must have taken awhile. We have time, Prowl. Time to persuade the humans, time to persuade Prime that we need this converter, that this could be the turning point.

Prowl slows to a stop just before the turn to the dirt track leading back to the Ark, and transforms back into his rootmode.

Surprised, and more than a little confused, Jazz follows suit. “What’s wrong?”

Prowl doesn’t look at him, optics on the horizon, taking in the broad expanse of azure blue. “This world. Before I came here, I was stationed in the Kol system. Its star was a red giant, a star in its final stage of stellar evolution. A dying star. The system though, when we arrived, was not dead. There were planets that were inhabited.” Prowl pauses, and Jazz switches his gaze from the sky to Prowl’s face. None of the tightly contained emotion Jazz can feel in his EM field makes it to his expression as he continues, “By the time I left, the system was lifeless. We destroyed whole planets in our war, destroyed alien civilisations or made them flee from their own system.” Prowl tilts his helm back, letting the sun hit his faceplates. “This planet is alive, but I’ve seen planets die before.”

Jazz isn’t sure what exactly it is Prowl’s feeling, whether it's sadness or something else. Not regret, maybe resignation, a weariness… he takes a step forward without thinking and slips his servo into Prowl’s for the second time that day.

Surprise teaks the tactician’s EM field, optics fixing on Jazz, who doesn’t meet them. He squeezes Prowl’s servo gently. “Maybe this time, nothing will have to die.”

“Optimistic,” Prowl says quietly, but for once, he doesn’t pull away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone reading! I really hope you're not bored, I know there's not been much action (or that much plot really) in the last couple of chapters, but I felt both Jazz and Prowl deserved a little rest and a chance to talk before jumping back into the fight.


	19. Chapter 19

They make the meeting in time, even with a stop at the washracks. Optics turn as they enter the room, and Jazz doesn’t miss the looks on his fellow officers’ faces. It’s hard to tell with the mouthplate covering his lower face, but even Optimus seems to be looking at Jazz and Prowl somewhat more thoughtfully than is normal. The only mechs that aren’t staring are Jack and Percy, who are both still talking about convertor related science in lowered voices and barely glance up as Jazz and Prowl enter the room, and Ratchet, who lost the capacity for surprise long before they got to Earth.

Jazz can tell the staring is unnerving Prowl a little, but to Jazz’s delight the tactician doesn’t let it show as he takes a seat, settling himself as if oblivious to the attention. Jazz hops into the seat next to Prowl, barely smothering a grin at the frown on Ironhide’s faceplates. They haven’t all been in the same room together since the meeting before the mission to Cybertron. At that point Ironhide had still been mostly ignoring Jazz, and uncomfortable but polite around Prowl. Now, Ironhide looks between them like he isn’t sure what to believe.

Optimus waits until they're all sat, then calls the meeting to order. “I'm sure most of you have some idea what this meeting is about, but Prowl, if you'd like to bring everyone up to speed?”

Prowl straightens in his seat although he hadn't exactly been slouching to start with, and begins to speak. “We're here to discuss the mission Jazz led to destroy Shockwave's energon convertor two days ago.”

“Jazz led?” Red Alert says suspiciously. “I thought you were the head of the Special Operations department now?”

Prowl inclines his helm. “That's correct. And I was the officer overseeing the mission from planning to completion. Jazz took the lead in the field, but the mission was run by me.”

Red Alert seems satisfied by Prowl’s explanation, and Jazz tries not to take it to personal that Red would rather the mission wasn’t his.

Prowl continues, “Jazz successfully located the space bridge and was able to travel through and locate the converter. He destroyed it, though first he was able to access and partially recover some of Shockwave’s notes for the construction of the convertor.”

There's a murmur of interest, interrupted by Ironhide. “Hold on, and finding the notes, that part of the original plan?”

Prowl hesitates, only for a second, but Jazz knows Ironhide sees it. “It wasn't the main objective, but we had discussed it as a secondary aim if Jazz saw an opportunity.”

Ironhide’s engine rumbles derisively. “Sorry Prowl, not buying it. I know Jazz and I'm betting he wasn't planning on leaving without that information, no matter what the official mission objective was.”

“And never mind if it got himself half-slagged in the process,” Ratchet says disapprovingly

Jazz forces himself to keep cool, even as he opens his mouth.

Prowl speaks before he gets a chance, glancing at Ironhide. “No, it was my call. I thought the potential reward outweighed the risk.”

Ratchet’s engine splutters. “Jazz was nearly offlined!”

“Nah, I wasn't, mech. I was just a little scratched up,” Jazz says, waving a servo dismissively.

“A little - next time I’ll use you for spare parts. What's left of you, that is.”

Ironhide looks at Jazz directly for the first time in Jazz can’t remember how long. “That true, you were hurt that bad?”

“Yes,” says Ratchet.

“I’ve been hurt worse,” Jazz says, shooting 'hide a small smile that the weapons specialist doesn’t return.

“His injuries were severe,” Prowl says, “but we gained crucial information. I’d say it’s an acceptable outcome.”

Ratchet looks at Prowl incredulously, “How can you of all mechs say that?”

The room tenses, except for Percy and Jack who look confused and curious respectively. Ratchet glances at them, mouth belatedly clamping shut.

“That's enough,” Optimus says calmly, but with the steel in his tone that makes it an order. “What's done is done. Perceptor, Wheeljack, were you able to make any use of the information Jazz risked so much to bring back? I understand he was not able to download everything.”

Preceptor sits up, a spark of uncharacteristic enthusiasm glowing in his optics. “It's true, there was much that was incomplete, but between Wheeljack and myself we were able to make the necessary deductions and extrapolations based on what information was present.”

“Prime, what he's saying is that we did it, we know how to build the converter,” Wheeljack interjects, leaning forward in his seat like he couldn't hold himself back any longer.

The mood in the whole room shifts. A general sense of shock and delight suffuses the EM field of everyone other than Jazz, Prowl, and the scientists. Whatever concerns they'd had about how the information had been gathered, about the danger, are forgotten.

“Oh, that's… that's amazing news,” Ratchet says, and the relief in his field is too strong for Jazz to stay quiet.

He hates to be the mech who cancels the party, especially since it's been so long since they've had this kind of win, but Wheeljack’s already had to give the bad news once today. “Don't get too excited, Ratch. There's a catch.”

The medic’s field flares with disappointment for a split-second, before Ratchet recovers. “Of course there is. Right, let's hear it. What does it require, a spark sacrifice?”

Perceptor resets his optics, looking a little disconcerted by the bitterness Ratchet hasn’t bothered to mask. “Nothing so barbaric. What it does require is energon, in vast quantities.”

“That ain't an understatement,” Wheeljack chips in.

“Wait, I thought this energon generator, converter, whatever, was supposed to solve our energon shortage,” Ironhide says.

Perceptor looks somewhat ruffled. “Well - yes, but energy doesn't come out of nowhere. Once the converter is running, it won't need any more fuel, but to get the converter running, we need an immense amount of power.”

“What form of energy is the converter going to be using?” Red Alert asks, tapping a stylus on his pad.

Perceptor opens his mouth to answer, but Wheeljack actually puts his servo over the other scientist's mouth. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Worry?” Red Alert straightens. “Is it dangerous?”

“No, no,” Wheeljack says hastily, “it's just an, um, unconventional energy source.”

Red Alert doesn’t look reassured.

Wheeljack mutters something about black holes.

Everyone in the room except Perceptor moves away from Wheeljack by unspoken agreement.

“Hey,” the engineer protests, “I haven't done anything yet! Besides, Percy agrees with me!’

“Wheeljack is correct,” Perceptor says calmly. “A black hole, correctly harnessed, would be a safe and stable source of energy.”

“Define safe and stable,” Ratchet mutters.

“Yeah, no offence, but that doesn't sound like a good idea. What’s to stop this black hole from destroying the entire planet?” Ironhide asks.

“The laws of physics,” Perceptor says, in stony offence.

Wheeljack, who's more used to facing scepticism and outright fear at his scientific proposals, adds hopefully, “It’d only be a mini black hole.”

“Oh,” Ratchet says, rolling his optics, “that's alright then. So long as you're only tearing a small hole in the fabric of the universe.”

Perceptor huffs. “That is a gross simplification -”

“Perceptor. Ratchet.”

The two fall quiet. Optimus waits a moment for anyone else to speak, then nods when no one does. “Perceptor and Wheeljack. I put my trust in your scientific expertise. If you can both assure me that the energy source used by the convertor would pose no danger, then I will trust you are correct.”

Perceptor looks somewhat mollified. Wheeljack fins flash as he lets out a nervous chuckle, “Well, I’m glad we have your support. Now we just need the forty thousand energon cubes needs to power it up and a couple of tonnes of obtenteum to build it.”

“HOW much?”

Jazz winces, leaning away from Ratchet and dialling down his audio receptors. “Easy on the audios, my mech. Some of us are sensitive.”

Ratchet snorts at that automatically, but isn't distracted. “Don't tell me to came down, Jazz. Did you hear what Jack just said?”

“That can't be right,” Ironhide says, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Oh, you want to do the math do you?” Wheeljack quips.

“Fraggit, no I don't Jack.” Ironhide vents. He looks to Ratchet hopefully. “Ratchet, you're in charge of stock. No chance we got that crazy amount of cubes lying around anywhere?”

Ratchet’s response is to laugh, long and low.

“Alright, I'm taking that as a no,” Ironhide says with a grimace. “You can stop laughing now.” Ratchet doesn't stop his sinister chuckling. Giving up, Ironhide shakes his helm and turns to Optimus. “So, what do you think boss?  Can the humans can get us that many cubes?”

Optimus’ optics dim as he considers. “The humans currently provide us with eight thousand cubes a month. This is already barely enough to keep us fuelled and repaired. I have been pushing for them to increase our rations to ten thousand a month, but I have not… been met with much co-operation this far.”

Ironhide’s engine rumbles. “Ungrateful slaggers. Do they want to be ruled by the Deceptions?”

“Ironhide,” Optimus says, in gentle reprimand. “The humans are sparing what they can. They still have their own cities and armies to power.”

“Yeah, well maybe they need to get used to living on lowered rations too,” Ironhide grumbles, unrepentant.

Jazz accepts a comm request from Prowl curiously. >Not like you to be passing notes in class. What’s up?

As usual, Prowl ignores his jokes and skips to the point. > You're quiet.

Jazz hides his smile behind a servo, covering his face as if venting in boredom, and slouches down in his seat a little more comfortably. > Well, looks like today I don't got to be the mech that says all the things Optimus don't want to hear.

> I see.< Prowl sends, and Jazz is almost sure there's a hint of amusement hidden there somewhere. >I suppose that is a change.

>Speaking of things that make a nice change of pace, thanks for sticking up for me. You really change your mind about the reward being worth the risk?

Prowl shifts minutely in his seat. >I'm still not happy about the way you overrode my concerns in the field, especially as those concerns were justified.

> Why did you stick up for me then? Thought you'd enjoy seeing me getting told off.

> It's more important that Ironhide and the others believe I’ve got you under control. If they think I can't handle you, it's going to make it a lot harder to put put our plans into play.

Jazz tilts his helm, pretending like he's at least paying some attention to the discussion about fuel rations and reasonable accommodations going on between the rest of the table. His plating feels like it's crawling with static at even the suggestion that he's under another mech’s control, but he hadn't missed that Prowl had said ‘our’ plans. He forces himself to relax. > Be careful. I might not be as popular as I used to be with this crowd, but if they think you might have tried to get me killed, they’re not going to be happy.

>You’re not dead, Prowl points out. >And it paid off. Ratchet and Ironhide are both pragmatic enough to let it go this time.

>What about Optimus?

Prowl’s optics flick towards their leader, sat with his chin rested on his folded servos as he listens to the table speak. >Prime could be a problem.

Jazz allows his mouth to turn up slightly. >Not my problem though, not today.

“Jazz, any thoughts?”

Jazz cuts the commlink and turns his attention back to the table. “I agree with Ratchet, cutting rations any lower ain't gonna work.”

“We've ran on less for longer,” Ironhide disagrees.

“I know, ‘hide. But back then, the Decepticons were running on half empty too.”

“That's true,” Ratchet agrees triumphantly, jabbing a digit at Ironhide. “We can't afford to give the Decepticons anymore advantages.”

Ironhide resets his optics, disconcerted. “How are the Decepticons keeping themselves regularly fuelled and managing to save up that crazy number of cubes? I thought they were just snatching what they could grab?”

“Yes, well it would appear that the Decepticons are quite good at snatching what they can,” Ratchet says drily.

Prowl clears his vocalizer. “The last sixty five percent of Decepticon activity involved attacks on various sites involving power sources that can be converted to energon. Of those incidents, seventy eight percent of the time the Decepticons were successful in obtaining some amount of fuel.”

Ironhide's optics widen. “I didn't realise they were doing that well. Why aren't we stopping them?”

“There are issues,” Prowl says neutrally. “Our human allies are a point of vulnerability that Megatron is happy to exploit.”  

There's an uncomfortable silence at the table. Everyone looks to Optimus, waiting for his reaction.

“Our human allies have also been a source of strength,” Optimus says, mildly. “They have helped us with more than energon. The Decepticons have always underestimated them to their cost.”

If it was anyone else, the last sentence would have been pointed, but because it’s Optimus, it’s said without reproach.

Prowl inclines his helm. “Of course. I did not mean to suggest otherwise.”

Optimus nods in acknowledgement, then addresses the table. “To be clear, then. The humans are our allies, not our subjects. We will ask them to increase the energon ration, explain the need - but we will not force them. Forcing another sentient species to follow our commands while we fight for freedom would betray our very cause. We will leave force to the Decepticons."

Jazz watches the expressions around the room. Most of the mechs are nodding in agreement, Ratchet looks relieved. Perceptor, of all mechs, is the only one frowning, looking hesitant, but whatever doubts he has he keeps to himself. Jazz keeps his own lazy smile on his faceplates, one pede swinging as if he couldn't care less. Prowl’s expression is unreadable. Optimus seems to have his optics on both of them, but seems satisfied when neither of them speak up to argue.

“I'm glad we are all in agreement,” Optimus says, rising from his chair. Everyone else takes that as the unspoken signal it is that the meeting’s at an end, packing away padds and shifting, stretching cramped cables. “I'll organise a conference with the humans. Wheeljack, Perceptor, one of you should be present to explain what the energon will be used for. Jazz, send Bumblebee. He has a knack for putting humans at ease.”

And a knack for following orders. Well, Optimus’s orders. Jazz’s optics narrow in a frown, hidden by his visor. He would have wanted to be in the room when they met with the humans to negotiate the energon rations. He might not have the same ability to charm the humans as Bee, but he had charm enough of his own, without all the scruples about manipulation. Still, there was no point arguing it.

“You got it, boss mech.” He gives a flippant salute, inwardly disappointed and already wondering if there's anyway on short notice to manufacture a reason for him to be at that meeting. Then again, there's always Mirage...

“Prime,” Prowl says, getting their leader’s attention. “If possible, I would also like to attend the meeting.”

>What?< Jazz opens up a commlink immediately. >Prowl, what are you doing?<

Prowl doesn't respond to him, leaving the comm unanswered.

Optimus looks at Prowl and Jazz sees the same confusion in those bright blue optics. “I appreciate your willingness, Prowl, but I doubt you will be needed. Your reports on the mission that lead to the destruction of the Decepticon's converter and our possession of the knowledge of how to build one are very through. We can meet to discuss strategy once the negotiations with the humans are complete.”

“Of course,” Prowl says, “I just thought it would be a good opportunity for me to meet our human allies, but that can wait.”

Optimus looks thoughtful. “I forget you have not been with us long. No, you're right. This is as good a time as any.”

Prowl inclines his helm in graceful acceptance.

>Well played, Jazz sends. >I’m actually quite impressed.

>Thank you, Prowl sends, and Jazz _knows_ that's amusement he's picking up from Prowl, level tone or no.

The meeting comes to an end. Ratchet and Ironhide hang around, chatting to Prime. Jazz hesitates for a moment, but then Ironhide catches him looking and shoots him a glare that tells him all is not yet forgiven. He slips out of the room after Prowl.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The political situation on Earth is based on the time period that the G1 cartoon ran during, so mid-eighties. I'm not a historian or someone with any in depth knowledge of international politics, so I'm not going to go into it that much.

The meeting with the humans was set for the coming Monday, which gave Prowl an orn and a half to learn as much as he could about the the humans, or as they apparently liked to be called collectively, humanity. Given that humanity was a relatively youthful species, with a history spanning a mere handful of millenia, Prowl had assumed there wouldn't be much to it, and had simply downloaded the standard information pack into his memory banks.

It was a rare miscalculation. He tried to sort through the information the shift before the meeting and became immediately frustrated.

>Well, o’ course, Jazz said, when Prowl commed him. >Humanity likes to make things complicated.

Complicated was the right word. Prowl had been informed that a delegate from something called the UN would be present, as well as the Director of the EDC, whatever those were. He'd first searched his data banks for the EDC and discovered that the acronym stood for Earth Defence Command and was a human-run military organisation that had ‘been formed in response to extraterrestrial threats’, which, since the humans had yet to develop intergalactic space travel, Prowl took to mean the Cybertronian threat, or perhaps, if they were lucky, the Decepticon threat. Apparently the EDC worked in conjunction with the Autobots to try and halt any Decepticon activity, and the file gave a list of missions they'd apparently cooperated together on, a list that Prowl didn’t have the time to read.

He moved onto the UN and nearly crashed his processor when he tried to call up the files on all the member nations. A hundred and fifty four nations. It seemed ridiculous. Cybertron, a planet roughly the same size as Earth, had been divided into thirteen territories, which had evolved into the thirteen city-states. Thirteen seemed a reasonable number to Prowl. It was certainly more manageable than one hundred and fifty four, all of which had their own histories and flags and cultures to try and process.

Jazz hadn't even bothered to hide his laughter when Prowl expressed his frustration. “You realise there's more’n that right?’

“More what?” Prowl asked, still trying to skim the files and figure out what information was relevant.

“More countries, nations, whatever you want to call them.”

Prowl looks up, distracted. “You're joking.”

Jazz’s lips curl up and Prowl searches his databanks for the number of countries on Earth. “That… is a ridiculous number.” He’s getting a processor-ache just thinking about trying to sort through all those files. He can handle what most mechs would consider to be an overwhelming amount of data, but even he has his limits. “How do the humans agree on anything?”

“They don't, f’r the most part,” Jazz says, swinging his heels. He's sat on the edge of Prowl's berth again, an act which is beginning to register as normal and less of an intrusion every time he does it. Prowl suspects that's at least partly why Jazz chooses to sit there.

“What do the UN do then?” Prowl demands.

“Try an’ keep the peace, mostly. Apparently they formed it after their last world war.”

“World war?” Prowl asks absently, already looking through his databases.

“It wasn’t quite on the same scale as our War, but it was bad enough from the sounds of it. Lots of humans dead, borders of countries changed. And they set off a couple of nukes.”

Jazz's summary is much more succinct than the file in his databank. “Nuclear weapons? Primitive, but effective enough I suppose.” Prowl reads through some more files. “That war ended in 1945. So is humanity now at peace?”

‘Oh slag no,” Jazz says casually. “There's wars goin’ on right now, terrorist attacks, political unrest, the works. There’s fightin’ in Afghanistan, in the Falklands, in South Africa, all over the world. There's unrest in China, a Civil War in Lebanon…”

“Sounds like this UN are failing at their task,” Prowl says drily.

“Hey, it’s a tough job! Like you said, lotsa different countries to try an’ keep the peace between. Different cultures, different languages, different people. Bound t’ be some disagreements.”

Prowl feels his optical ridges narrow in a frown. It feels stupid to admit, but he hadn't been prepared for how… alien he would find human culture. Or cultures, as it turned out. It's not that Cybertronian culture was completely homogenous, there were regional differences and dialects across the different city-states, but in by comparison, there seemed to be much less variation. He said so to Jazz.

“I mean… you’re not wrong, but you're not right.”

Prowl raises an optical ridge.

Jazz huffs out a vent, sounding genuinely frustrated. “You're from Praxus, right?”

“Yes,” Prowl replies, wondering why Jazz was bothering to ask such an obvious question. His frame was quite traditionally Praxian, and besides, Jazz had read his file.

“Do y’think of yourself as Praxian?”

“Yes.” Prowl is truly perplexed.

Jazz groans. “No ya don't. Not most of the time anyways. Lemme phrase this a little different, if I asked you what you are, you’d say…”

“An Autobot,” Prowl answers automatically. “Oh.” He frowns, a little disconcerted by his own response. “I see.”

“‘xactly,” Jazz says, leaning forward triumphantly. “You're an Autobot first. And Autobots come from a bunch o’ city-states. Five million years of war is a lot of time t’ forget your differences.”

“I see your point,” Prowl says slowly. He does, although he doesn't think Jazz's theory fully accounts for what Prowl had at first considered the homogeneity of Cybertronian culture, but now realises might be more accurately termed Autobot culture. It was true that there were Autobots from every city-state, but it was also not unfair to say that some city-states had leaned more red than purple. Iacon, aside from the privileged few living in the Towers, had mostly gone Autobot, as had Prowl's home state of Praxus. Other city-states like Kaon, home of the gladiator pits, and Vos, home of the Seekers, had gone by and large to the Decepticons. It once again raises the question in Prowl’s processor of where Jazz originated from. Perhaps that information was more relevant to who Jazz was now than either Prowl or Jazz had thought it was.

He puts aside the question as a problem for another time and refocuses. “So the UN is an international peacekeeping organisation that represents the interests of many, but not all this planet's nations.”

Jazz nods. “Pretty much, though it's missing a couple of the big players.”

“And the EDC is an international military organisation dedicated to extraterrestrial activity. To put it bluntly, they're a military outfit organised in response to our presence on Earth.”

“That make you a little uncomfortable too, huh?” Jazz says shrewdly.

Prowl nods. “I haven't read the files, but I've seen that they've worked with us on a number of occasions. That might have been in response to Decepticon activity, but it will have also given them the opportunity to observe how we operate as a military unit, shown them our capabilities, our technology. The Decepticons are our enemies, but they are Cybertronian too. What can be used against them can be used against us.”

“An’ I understand your concern, but trust me, workin’ with us has just shown the humans firsthand they don't stand a chance against us.” Jazz looks at him, mouth a hard line. “No one, not even Prime, has talked about givin’ the humans access to any of our weapons tech.”

“Weaponry isn't the only thing that can be used against us,” Prowl counters.

“I know, Prowl,” Jazz slips off the berth and moves over to Prowl’s side to lean against the desk. “I'm keeping an optic on it.”

Prowl nods, only somewhat reassured. “Good. Someone needs to. Optimus said that the Decepticons have underestimated the humans in the past. I would hate us to make the same mistake.”

“I don't think you're the type to underestimate an enemy or an ally,” Jazz says, leaning against his desk. He shoots Prowl a crooked grin, “‘specially when you ain't sure which they are.”

“Are you speaking from personal experience?” Prowl asks, unable to resist playing along a little.

Jazz laughs, dentae flashing in a pleased smile. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“Hmm.” Prowl turns back to his desk and absently accesses another file. Jazz has helped him get something of a read on the local situation, but he still feels much less prepared than he would like. Maybe he should try to read through some of the EDC’s mission reports…

“Prowl.”

Distracted, Prowl looks up. The smile is gone from Jazz's face, leaving the saboteur looking unusually serious. Prowl closes the file again and gives Jazz his full attention, looking at him expectantly.

“The EDC call itself an international operation, but in practice it's a branch of the American military.”

“The United States of America,” Prowl says, recalling the file. “That's where our own base is currently located.”

Jazz points his digits at Prowl and makes some kind of inexplicable gesture Prowl can only guess is native to Earth. “Bang! Got it in one.”

“What's your point?” Prowl says, leaning back in his seat.

“Officially - an’ Prime has tried to make it very clear he's not interested in gettin’ involved in local politics - officially we're allied with humanity as a species, but as you've just discovered, humanity ain't that united or coherent a bunch of beings.”

“So unofficially?” Prowl asks tiredly, rubbing the spot just below his chervon. He doesn’t think he’s had this many processor-aches since the first cycle after he’d had his TacNet installed.

“Unofficially we’re sorta seen as bein’ very friendly with the Americans. They've let us set up base here, and they supply a good amount of our energon.”

“So what's the problem?”

“The problem,” Jazz says, tapping a digit against one of the traditional Praxian desk ornaments Prowl owns and setting it into motion, “is that we've upset a pretty delicate balance of power. See, remember those nuclear weapons I talked about? Well, the USA has a lot of them. And so do a couple of other countries that the USA isn't on particularly friendly terms with. The USA keeps building more, but so do these other countries. Collectively, they've got enough firepower to blow up the planet.”

“So what's keeping this planet from going up in flames?” Prowl asks, reflexively reaching out to stop the ornament’s motion.

“Mutually assured destruction,” Jazz answers promptly.

“What?”

“It’s a human strategy. The idea is that neither side can outright attack the other without invitin’ a reciprocal attack that would leave both sides annihilated.”

Prowl grimaces, not bothering to hide his distaste. “That strategy is barbaric and utterly reckless.”

Jazz shrugs loosely. “As part of a species that did almost completely destroy their own planet, I don't think we're in a position to judge humanity too harshly. Anyway, that’s my point. That strategy only works when the balance in power is more or less equal.”

“But now the other countries think we're allied with the USA,” Prowl says, venting as he understands.

“‘Exactly. And the USA ain't in any hurry to clear that misunderstandin’ up.”

“They do realise that we are not going to involve ourselves in whatever primitive conflict it is they're fighting over?”

“Because our cause is so noble,” Jazz quips. “Wait, why are we fightin’ again?”

“Jazz.”

Jazz vents loudly. “I'm kiddin’, I'm kiddin’.”

“I thought you didn't want me to question your loyalty,” Prowl says disapprovingly.

“Yeah, I've given you no reason to trust me, other than four million years of loyal service to the Autobot cause,” Jazz snaps, pushing himself away from Prowl's desk. He moved toward the berth, then stops, moving instead to lean against the wall furthest from Prowl, forcing Prowl to swivel in his seat to keep Jazz in sight.

Prowl regards Jazz, somewhat at a loss. The saboteur looks back at him, arms folded moodily across his bumper and a cold light in his visor. Prowl isn't going to apologise, not when he's not the one in the wrong here. Still, he does need Jazz's help. “So, the USA doesn't want the rest of the world to know that we're not on their side,” he prompts.

For a breem he thinks Jazz isn't going to respond, the saboteur stares at him silently, expression unreadable. Then Jazz lets out a vent and slouches against the wall. “You're a real ass sometimes, y’know that Prowl?”

Prowl tilts his helm, nonplussed by what he presumes to be an Earth pejorative, but somewhat reassured by it as well. “If I knew what that meant, I might be offended.”

Jazz tilts his helm back against the wall, looking at the ceiling. “The USA doesn't want their enemies to know we're not walking talking weapons of mass destruction.”

“So you're suggesting we blackmail the EDC?”

“Nah, blackmail’s a little extreme. We don’t want to piss off the humans who are helpin’ us. But you could suggest that if the UN and in particular the USA don't have the energon to spare, well… there's other countries who would probably be happy to help, for an assurance that we won’t be gettin’ involved in any human wars.” Jazz shoots Prowl a grin that isn't very friendly. “What do you think?”

“Smart, and it would make it clear to the humans that we are not tools to be used.”

“I reckon Optimus would play along too. He's not happy about bein’ seen as havin’ picked a side.”

Prowl nods, decisively, and checks his chronometer. He has quarter of a joor until the meeting starts, but he feels a lot more prepared than he had at the start of the shift. “I should get going. The meeting starts soon.”

Jazz takes a hint and goes to the door. “See ya afterwards then.”

"I'll comm you as soon as the meeting is over," Prowl promises. He knows it must sting that it's him and not Jazz who's going to be at the meeting, but the saboteur has taken being sidelined with remarkably little complaint and a demand that Prowl fill him in on everything as soon as possible.

Prowl waits until the door has slid shut behind Jazz, then opens up a recent file he's created and makes a note to find out exactly which city-states had gone to which faction. He’s not sure yet how it’ll help him figure out Jazz’s past, but he can sense there’s some kind of connection he hasn’t quite made yet.


	21. Chapter 21

“Hey watch out!”

Prowl pulls back against the wall automatically, servo going to his blaster. The weapon is primed and aimed before his targeting systems flash up a friendly target warning. He lowers his blaster, and gives Bumblebee a disapproving look. “Racing in the halls is the kind of behaviour I’d expect from Sunstreaker or Sideswipe, not you.”

“S-sorry,” Bumblebee stammers, transforming back to his rootmode and giving Prowl a wide-opticked look.

Prowl puts away his blaster, ignoring the look. “The meeting isn't due to start for another breem, so there was no reason to rush like that. Someone could have been hurt.”

“Yeah,” Bumblebee mutters quietly, “from the looks of it, me.”

“Hey, don't yell at Bee. It was my fault. I asked him to race.”

A human pops up from behind Bumblebee’s leg where it must have been concealed, and Prowl tries not to take a step back in alarm.

“Aw, Spike, don't worry about it. I should have known better.” Bumbleebee tilts his helm down, addressing the tiny organic, seemingly heedless of the fact it has one of its distressingly fleshy looking servos - no, the correct term is hands, Prowl’s processor supplies - on his paintwork.

“It's still not your fault,” the human - Spike, Prowl thinks Bumblebee called it - argues, before stepping out from behind Bumblebee and approaching Prowl. “Promise you won't tell him off, please?”

Prowl’s optics move to the human, resetting as he tries to focus on the small features. “Fine,” he agrees, more than a little disconcerted by the fearlessness of the creature.

“I don't think we've met yet,” the human says, sticking out a hand. “I'm Spike.”

Unnerved, Prowl glances at Bee, who gives him an encouraging nod. Reluctantly Prowl cautiously extends his own servo, not at all sure this is going to work. Spike is clearly more experienced than him though and solves the issue by grasping one of Prowl’s digits with his own tiny ones. “My designation is Prowl.”

“Your what?” For some reason the human seems to find this simple statement quite amusing, convulsing in a strange manner and emitting odd noises Prowl’s translator can't parse. Laughter, Prowl realises belatedly, although brought on by what he isn't sure. “Oh boy, you are fresh off the boat.”

Prowl extracts his servo carefully. He has no idea what that comment is supposed to mean. Human languages, he’s quickly learning, are frustratingly non-literal and often imprecise, allowing someone to say one thing, and mean something quite different. It’s nothing like Neocybex. Prowl glances at Bee, who shrugs and doesn't offer up any explanation.

“We’d better head in,” Bumblebee says, ushering Spike towards the door.

The human glanced back towards Prowl. “Uh, sure. You coming, Prowl?”

The door slides open, revealing a long table. On one side are sat three more humans, while crowded around the opposite side are Perceptor, Wheeljack, and, strangely enough, Ironhide. Optimus glances up from the head of the table and nods in acknowledgement. “Bumblebee, Spike, welcome. Prowl, let me introduce you and then we can begin.”

The door slides shut behind Prowl. He looks round the room. There's less humans than he'd expected, but Prime doesn't seem to be expecting anyone else to arrive. Uncomfortably, Prowl realises he is the last to arrive. He inclines his helm, “I apologise if I have held things up.”

“Not at all,” one of the humans speaks. Again, he's struck by their fearlessness; despite it's diminutive stature, it addresses him directly. “We were early, but Optimus was good enough to meet us straight away. Unfortunately, as Director of the EDC my time is limited, so we were about to start.”

Prowl can't help his doorwings from hitching higher in affront and he opens his mouth to explain to this human that as leader of the Autobot army and as Prime, Optimus’s time is a far more precious commodity.

Bee resets his vocaliser, shooting Prowl a look that pleads with him to drop it.

“Of course,” Optimus replies, courteous, as if this human is someone deserving of the respect he's according. “Prowl, this is Marissa Faireborn, the Director of the Earth Defence Command. Next to her is Ayana Jones, her SIC. The EDC have been working alongside us to defeat the Decepticons.”

Optimus can't be unaware of Prowl’s affront, but the Prime doesn't acknowledge it, so Prowl forces his door wings to lower back into a neutral position. “I look forward to working with you both.”

Marissa Faireborn bares her teeth at him in what he thinks is intended as a smile. Her second doesn't smile, just gives him the look of someone appraising a potential threat.

Optimus seems pleased enough by their exchange of pleasantries, and turns to the last human. “This is Jean Marc, a delegate from the United Nations.”

Jean Marc seems more nervous than the other two humans, ducking his head in a very quick nod, his eyes flitting nervously around the room. “Yes, well, shall we get on with it?” His nerves seem to be manifest as rudeness. “What did you call us here for?”

Again, Prowl struggles to contain his irritation at the tone with which the humans use to address the Prime, but Optimus himself seems unbothered. “Of course. Let me explain the current situation...” Without further preamble, Prime launched into his explanation of the situation with the Deceptions and the energon converter, pausing to allow Wheeljack or Preceptor to speak when necessary.

Prowl doesn't bother paying attention to what's being said; it's nothing he doesn't already know. Instead, he looks around the room, studying faces, trying to judge what effect their presentation is having on the humans. He's never been particularly good at reading people, and soon decides that trying to figure out alien body language and expressions is a task beyond him. The humans at least all appear to be listening, other than Spike that is, who he catches trying to smother a yawn behind one hand and whispering something to Bumblebee, whose own optics look somewhat unfocused.

Prowl frowns. He knows that Spike is the official human-Autobot liaison, but he really isn't sure why he's been included in this meeting. From his understanding, the post is mostly ceremonial, an acknowledgement of him being the point of first contact between their two species. He assumes Prime choose Bumblebee for much the same reason; the little ‘bot isn’t an officer, but he’s the second most recognisable Autobot on the planet after Prime. The reason for Ironhide’s inclusion in this meeting, however, is a total mystery. Prowl looks at the Weapons Specialist again. Ironhide is frowning intently, listening as Wheeljack and Perceptor talk. He at least looks like he’s paying attention.

“...so, you see, while the initial energy cost is indeed great, in the long term, you would be relieved of the obligation of providing our energon supplies,” Perceptor finishes, winding down from what Prowl thinks must have been quite a long-winded speech. Spike isn’t the only human who seems to have been growing restless. Marissa Faireborn’s fingers drum against the table.

“I see. So you wish us to increase your energon rations by two hundred percent, is that correct?” She glances at the pad she’s been writing on, as if to check, though Prowl somehow thinks she isn’t at all uncertain.

“Impossible,” Jean Marc cuts in, his fear apparently overpowered by his incredulity. “That is a simply outrageous demand.”

Every Autobot around the table goes tense, EM fields flaring for a brief klik. Of course, none of the humans have the means of noticing disturbance in the EM fields, but it’s only Spike who seems to even register the change in the way every mech in the room is suddenly holding themselves. The human tilts his head, looking up at Bumblebee inquiringly.

“It is not a demand,” Prime says, very carefully.

“Of course not,” Marissa cuts in, briskly. “We’re all on the same side.”

Prime inclines his helm, but not before Prowl catches the gleam of relief in his optics. “I am glad to hear that.”

“Still,” Marissa continues, unaffected and unaware, “Marc is right. We can’t afford that number of cubes per month, the President will never approve it.”

“Every nation in our Union already gives as much - more - than they can afford,” Jean Marc cuts in hastily.

“Yes,” Marissa says, a little testily, “although some countries more than others.”

“Some countries have more resources,” Jean Marc counters, spreading his hands. “Each does their part.”

“Yes, well. The point is, I can’t see anyone agreeing to give more cubes, especially if you’re unwilling to share any of the technology you’re working on with us.”

Wheeljack and Perceptor share a dismayed glance. Optimus sends them a reassuring look. “Unfortunately that is simply impossible. Such technology would be far too advanced to hand over to a species at your stage of development.”

“So you keep saying,” Marissa says, losing the smile. “But if you want us to help you, you need to start helping us.”

Prowl isn't the only mech whose EM field bristles at her tone. Surprisingly, Perceptor is the one who seems most affected. Normally a mech with a very flat field, Prowl can feel the spikes of anger/frustration coming from the scientist from the other end of the table.

Optimus’s field is as placid as a still pool of oil, not even a ripple of irritation marring its surface. “Both our forces will benefit from any advantage over the Decepticons. We are already offering you our protection.”

Even Marissa seems to realise she's gone too far. “And we are grateful, don't get me wrong. We’re aware that we need your protection, but you've got to give me something to bargain with here.”

Perceptor speaks up, clearly losing patience. “Were you not listening? This energon convertor would be able to provide energon enough to fuel our entire army. And enough surplus to arm our forces -”

“Perceptor,” Optimus says, with no anger, but the meaning is clear.

Perceptor’s mouth falls shut.

Marissa looks at Optimus. “Enough energon to arm both our forces?”

“As I have said before, we will not provide you with Cybertronian weaponry.”

Marissa slams a hand against the table. Jean Marc isn't the only one to jump. “Why not?” Her hand clenches into a fist, and Prowl decides he doesn't need to be an expert in human body language to read the frustration that's coming off her in waves. “How can we fight the Decepticons with our current technology? Bullets bounce off them, grenades and rockets do next to nothing, and our other options leave humanity with a smoking, radioactive husk of a planet which you lot would probably still be able to walk away from!”

“Marissa Faireborn, the Autobots will not walk away,” Optimus says, with painful sincerity.

Marissa laughs, but Prowl detects no amusement in the sound. “Great. Then you can die with us.”

‘If the Autobots were to supply you with Cybertronian weaponry and technology, can you give me your word it would never be used on any threat but the Decepticons?”

Prowl has to manually override the protest that wants to erupt from his vocaliser at what Prime is suggesting. The only agreement in any of the treaties between them that the Decepticons have never broken is the one to never provide arms or technology to other races, no matter what exchange is offered. True, Prowl doubts that Megatron abides by that term for the same reasons as the Autobots, but still. Their war is hard enough to keep track of as it is, without having to worry about other races with sufficient firepower to pose a threat against either side. Prowl turns to Ironhide, desperate. The Weapons Specialist is the one who would most deeply understand the folly of what Prime is offering, but to Prowl's surprise the old soldier doesn't seem worried, a frown on his faceplates, but no ripple of alarm in his field.

“Of course,” Marissa says, without hesitation. “We would never use them against anyone but the Decepticons.”

 _Lying_ , whispers a voice in Prowl’s processor that sounds a lot like Jazz. He can't hold back any longer, “Sir -”

Optimus ignores him, looking to Jean Marc. “And will you, on behalf of all the nations you represent swear the same thing? That if Cybertronian weaponry was in human hands that it would never be turned against other humans?”

Ironhide stirs, and speaks for the first time that meeting, “Or against Autobots.” He shoots Prime an apologetic look that Prime doesn't acknowledge, still staring intently down at Jean Marc. The UN delegate hesitates, glancing from Marissa Faireborn back to Optimus. “Well, I am sure - that is, to say…” he stumbles, and trails off.

Optimus nods, looking unsurprised. “Then I am afraid that my answer remains the same. We cannot supply you with Cybertronian technology or weaponry.”

Marissa glares at Prime, then switches her glare to Jean Marc, who recoils, alarmed. “Let's break for a five minute recess,” she says in a clipped tone, striding to the door before anyone can even agree, the other EDC soldier close on her heels.

Jean Marc seems to debate whether he'd rather be left in a room of mostly Cybertronians, and appears to decide that even furious, he'd rather take his chances with other humans, leaving shortly after.

Ironhide waits until the door closes, then grunts. “Well, that could’ve gone better.”

“It could not have gone much worse,” Optimus agrees.

Prowl can't hold himself back any longer, “Respectfully, sir, even if you had the humans’ assurances that any Cybertronian weaponry would only be used against the Decepticons, I would not advise -”

“Relax,” Ironhide says, gruffly. “Prime was bluffing. We know they can't promise us they wouldn't take our weapons and use them against their own people.”

Prowl frowns, glancing at Spike who doesn't seem about to argue with Ironhide. “Then why make the offer?”

Optimus exchanges a glance with Ironhide, but the Weapons Specialist is the one who answers. “Because it makes it sound like we're willing to offer.”

Prowl is surprised and somewhat impressed by this reasoning. “I see.”

“Not that it's working so well right now,” Ironhide adds, engine rumbling in discontent.

Prowl remembers Jazz’s advice, to try and scare the humans by hinting at the possibility of the Autobots approaching some of the nations not represented at today's meeting. He isn't sure how to suggest it, but there isn't much time. Marissa and the others won't be gone much longer. He abandons any thought of subtlety and decides to just see how the idea is received. “Perhaps instead of making offers we can’t keep to the EDC and the UN, we could suggest that if they refuse to help us, there are other countries that might, for simple knowledge that we will not be arming the EDC or the UN.”

Optimus gives Prowl an intent look. Ironhide’s optical ridges lower. “How's that going to help? The EDC and the UN already know we're not getting involved in any inter-human conflicts.”

Prowl steeples his servos. “But do the other nations know that?”

“Of course they do,” Ironside says. He glances at Prime, “Don't they?”

Prime is still staring thoughtfully at Prowl. It makes him want to hitch his door wings higher, a self-conscious mannerism he hasn't been given to since his pre-academy days. “It is likely the other nations outside of the UN are not aware of this fact.”

“What, really?” Wheeljack says, incredulously. He’d been so quiet, Prowl had almost forgotten the scientist was there.

“Yes,” Prime answers. “It is something I have been aware of for sometime; the UN and the EDC have been deliberately misleading in their media reports about to whom it is that we Autobots have offered our protection and allegiance.”

Wheeljack looks like he wants to ask Prime to elaborate, but Prime is frowning, clearly in deep thought.

Prowl checks his chronometer; they don't have long, it's already been five minutes. “Prime?”

Prime's optics refocus, landing back on Prowl. “Yes. I will follow your advice, Prowl.”

Prowl keeps his door wings still, not letting his relief show in his frame.

A decision made just in time. The door slides open and the humans return, taking their places back around the table.

Marissa leans back in her chair, fixing Optimus with a hard stare. “So we've decided that we’re not going to be able to increase your energon rations at all.”

“That is unfortunate,” Optimus replies calmly.

Marissa leans forward, placing her elbows on the table aggressively. “In fact, we talked it over, and it looks like we’re going to need to cut how much energon we've giving you. We’re going to need the resources to put into our own research projects, you see.”

“I do. In that case perhaps it is time for us to approach some of the other governments of this world and see if they would be willing to help us with this shortfall.” Optimus’s faceplates are a mask of perfect politeness and neutrality. The effect is somewhat ruined by the slag-eating grin Ironhide is wearing, sat next to him.

Marissa frowns, aggression turning to uncertainty in an instant. “Wait, what?”

Jean Marc clears his throat, “I hope I am mistaken… you do not mean to ally yourself with countries hostile to the UN do you?”

“Yeah, Optimus,” Marissa says slowly, the anger building in her voice. “I sure do hope that's not what you mean. You landed in this country, my country, bringing your war and your fighting with you, and we let you stay. We've helped you, and now you talking about going to our enemies for help?”

“Your enemies,” Optimus corrects, “Not ours.” He leans forward across the table, intimidating without even trying. To her credit, Marissa doesn't even flinch. “We did not offer the United States of America protection, nor did we agree to only protect the countries that are a part of the United Nations. We offer Earth protection, we stay here on this planet as humanity's allies. If you thought otherwise - if you thought we would take sides, you were mistaken.”

Marissa glares, matching stares with Optimus.

Prowl thinks it's not going to work, they're going to have to actually make good on their word, and approach the other humans. The gambit has failed, and he may have lost them what support they already had.

Jean Marc clears his throat, getting Prowl’s attention. Prowl is no expert of human physiology, but he thinks the human looks paler than he did at the start of the meeting. “Perhaps we can increase your energon supplies by a little. Not quite as much as you were wanting, perhaps,” Jean Marc laughs, nervous and self-conscious, “however it should still be enough for you to work on your project.”

Optimus breaks his stare from Marissa to look at Jean Marc. “That seems reasonable.”

“And then there is no need for you to approach other nations for help - not, of course, that that would be wrong, it is just that human politics are complicated, and as you say, you do not want to get involved.”

“Indeed,” Optimus agrees gravely.

Wheeljack snorts. Jean Marc looks at him, blinking anxiously at the sound. “Nothin’,” the scientist waves him off, vocaliser still staticky with contained laughter, “just a ah, mechanical problem.”

Prowl privately shares Wheeljack’s amusement. The human's notion that his species and their politics would be too complicated for a leader and political figurehead as old and experienced as Prime is ludicrous, but he is correct that they don't want to get involved.

“So, that is agreed then?” Jean Marc says, turning back to Optimus hopefully. “We will increase your energon supply by - let's see, twenty-two percent, and in exchange you will continue to offer all of humanity your protection. The UN is happy and honoured to be chosen to work with you to ensure this is possible.”

Optimus glances at Wheeljack and Perceptor. “Is twenty-two percent enough to work with?”

“That is absolutely -”

Perceptor shuts up so abruptly, Prowl suspects Wheeljack must have commed him directly.

“Eh, we'll manage,” Wheeljack says diplomatically.

Optimus’s optics burn with satisfaction. “That is satisfactory. Marissa?”

The EDC director looks like she’s just taken a gulp of bad engex. “Not like you're leaving us much of a choice.”

She's been outmaneuvered and she's smart enough to know it. Hopefully she's practical enough to keep working with them, and not make things more difficult out of a grudge. Prowl thinks from what he's seen of her that she is.

The meeting winds up quickly after that.  Marissa and her soldier leave quickly, citing other important EDC business, and Jean Marc follows them out, leaving Spike as the last remaining human.

“Wow,” the human says, jumping out of his seat, “you sure had them all worried.”

“I hope you were not worried, Spike,” Optimus says, kneeling down.

“Nah,” Spike says blithely, “I know you guys aren't going to turn on us. And so what if you want to work with other countries? I actually think that's a good idea. Humanity should be working together, really together, to fight the Decepticons.”

“I agree,” Optimus says solemnly. He hesitates, then admits, “I find this quite difficult to express to your leaders, however. It is hard to preach unity and cooperation when you are part of a species that has been at war with itself for longer than humanity has existed.”

“Aw, don't worry about it Optimus, if there was a way to make peace with the Decepticons, you'd have figured it out.” Spike lays a comforting hand on Optimus's plating.

“Thank you, Spike. Sometimes, I am not sure…” Optimus trails off, optics going dim and distant.

Prowl watches, silently confused. It’s not that Optimus is the type of leader to never speak his thoughts or admit to emotion, but Prowl has never seen him so open with another being. It reminds Prowl that Optimus was not always a Prime.

Optimus resets his vocaliser, optics refocusing as he returns from wherever his thoughts took him. “Thank you, Spike. I know this meeting must have been boring for you, but I appreciate your attendance.”

“No problem, Optimus.” Spike looks up at Bumblebee, “Hey, Bee, want to go for a drive?”

Bumblebee looks to Optimus, who glances at  Prowl questioningly.

Prowl nods his permission. “I will handle the report.”

“And brief Jazz on what's been decided?” Ironhide asks, a little sly.

Prowl stiffens, feeling caught out. Bumblebee and Spike exchange wide-eyed glances, then quietly file out as Prowl figures out how he should react. “I assumed the outcome of this meeting was going to be a matter of public knowledge?”

“I am going to let everyone know,” Optimus assures him, getting to his feet.

Prowl hesitates, “Then would you prefer me to wait until you’ve sent out the messages to everyone?”

“No, you can tell Jazz immediately if you wish.”

“That one can't stand being out of the loop,” Ironhide says gruffly. “I'm just teasin’ you, mech.”

Prowl busies himself sorting through his notes on his pad, feeling discomforted. “I see.”

“We were surprised to see you and him getting on so well to be honest,” Ironhide continues, “given well… you know.”

“We work together well,” Prowl agrees, decidedly uncomfortable now.

“Surprised, but not displeased,” Optimus clarifies, optics rather too knowing. “The circumstances which brought you two together were unfortunate, but I hope you can both overcome that and not let that stand in the way of your future.” Optimus walks over to Prowl and gently rests a servo on his pauldron for a brief klik. Prowl normally detests even casual physical contact, but Prime's touch for once only brings him comfort.

He doesn't say anything, unsure how to respond, but Optimus doesn't seem to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah! Sorry this took longer than I wanted to write, I didn't anticipate struggling with the humans so much! But I did! Anyways, a bit more human politics, hopefully not too much. I don't want to get too into the human history/politics side of things as while I think there's plenty of interesting things that could be done, it would need to be written by someone more knowledgeable than me. Anyway, I hope this is all understandable and not too ridiculous. Thank you to everyone reading! On a personal note, this is now officially the longest fanfiction I've ever written now, and we're not even close to done yet. I know I wouldn't have gotten anywhere as far as I am without the people reading this and leaving messages and kudos, so thank you all so much.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! One reader pointed out to me that the comm conversations can be confusing to read, so I've tried to make it easier this chapter. Let me know if you think this works better and I'll go back and edit the older chapters too!

Prowl’s on his way back to his room to meet Jazz when the message comes in. It’s a base-wide message telling everyone to report to the main entrance, there’s been a Decepticon attack. Prowl changes direction without pausing in his stride; a klik later and he gets a comm request to join the command channel, which he answers immediately.

>Prowl here. What’s going on?<

>The Decepticons have attacked a human city fifty miles from here,< Optimus sends, foregoing any greeting. >Local services are already reporting massive amounts of damage and loss of life.<

Prowl hurries his step. >A city? That isn’t the Decepticons’ usual target.<

>No,< Optimus agrees. >This is an act of retaliation. Megatron is leading the attack himself, along with Starscream and the other Seekers, as well as the whole Constructicon team, and some other so-far unidentified Decepticons.

>That’s a lot of heavy hitters,< Ironhide sends.

That’s an understatement; Optimus just listed almost the entire Decepticon force currently on Earth, and Prowl readjusts his expectations for the scale of the upcoming confrontation. With that number of Decepticons involved, it’s no wonder Optimus is calling everyone in. Megatron and the Seekers are bad enough, but the Constructicons are who really have Prowl worried. >Is Devastator formed?<

>Not yet, but I expect that will soon change,< Optimus sends. He doesn’t have to spell out exactly how bad that news is. >Ratchet, I want you along with us. First Aid can stay at the medbay and prep for our return.<

>I’m picking up supplies already,< Ratchet sends, tone grim.

No one says what they’re thinking; that if Prime is bringing his Chief Medical Officer to a battlefield, he’s expecting more casualties than their Junior Medical Officer can handle.

>Uh, Optimus? When you say we’re takin’ almost all o’ our fighters… are we takin’ the Dinobots?<

>No Jazz. We cannot risk deploying the Dinobots in this battle. The EDC are working to evacuate, but it is doubtful that they will be able to clear the city completely. We need to minimise our civilian casualties.<

>Yeah, I had a feelin’ you were gonna say that. Makes sense, but I’m gonna miss seein’ those lunkheads try an’ take down a combiner.<

>It is unfortunate, but unavoidable.<

Prowl turns onto the main corridor leading to the entrance. There’s several other bots hurrying in the same direction as him, but he doesn’t spot Jazz or any of the other officers among them until he reaches the entrance hall. Half of Autobot High Command are already present. Jazz is standing by the main door, next to Optimus, Ironhide, and Red Alert. Despite the saboteur’s relaxed frame, Prowl can read the hidden tension in the way Jazz shifts from pede to pede, more restless than usual, turning his head to scan the crowd every few kliks. As Prowl starts to make his way through the crowd, Jazz glances round, visor landing on Prowl as he spots him with ease.

“Good, you're here,” Optimus says as Prowl reaches them. “Ratchet is on his way now. Red Alert will remain at base in case of any trouble here.”

Prowl nods in acknowledgement, and turns to look over the crowded room. More than a dozen Autobots fill the room. Prowl takes in the expressions; anxiety, excitement, fear, boredom. Conflicting fields brush up and overlap with his own, tightly contained field. “Is everyone else we’re taking here?”

“Bee’s just droppin’ off Spike, he’ll be here in a second,” Jazz answers.

“Bluestreak and Hound are coming back from patrol, they’ll meet us outside,” Ironhide adds.

Prowl nods, adding those bots to their number and mentally evaluating their usefulness. Bluestreak is an excellent sniper, and Hound is a great scout. Neither are particularly suited for the type of urban combat that they’re about to face, but Prowl will have to work with what he has. He spots Sunstreaker and Sideswipe in the crowd. The two frontliners look restless, not a trace of fear on their faceplates. Despite having ground-based vehicle altmodes like the rest of the Autobot army, the two Lamborghinis are their two most effective soldiers when it comes to fighting Seekers. Still, if the human intelligence is correct, and both Seeker trines are at the battlefield, then the twins are going to be heavily outnumbered. For that matter, so will the rest of the Autobots. Prowl turns to Optimus. “How do you want to do this?”

Optimus shakes his helm. “We'll discuss that enroute. Ratchet’s just arrived and the others are outside.”

Prowl glances over the crowd and catches a flash of white as Ratchet makes his way over to them. The main door starts to open, and he turns around. “How are we getting there?”

Optimus steps out of the base into sunlight and starts to walk towards the hangar adjacent to the main building. “The Skyroller.”

It's a squeeze even in the Skyroller. Wheeljack pushes past everyone  to the pilot’s seat, while everyone else finds something to hold onto or strap into. Prowl looks around, at a slight loss, until he feels someone’s servo grab at his wrist.

“This way,” Jazz says, tugging him over towards the front of the ship. “Saved ya a seat.”

Prowl’s barely has time to strap in before the ship's engine’s are roaring to life and they take off. He grits his dentae and clenches the arms of the seat harder than necessary. Like most grounders, he's never much liked flying.

It gets better when they reach altitude and level out, Prowl's gyros stabilising. He opens his optics, which he must have shut at some point to see Jazz giving him an amused look, “Jacky ain't that bad of a pilot.”

Before Prowl can respond, Optimus is pushing himself up, out of his seat and moving towards the main deck. The excited and nervous chatter of over a dozen Autobots cuts off as he stands, waiting for their attention. Prowl twists round in his own seat.

“Attention, Autobots. By now I am sure you have heard where we are headed and why.”

“Is it true Devastator is there?” calls out a small bot that Prowl hasn't met in person. Huffer, he remembers, matching designation to mech

“The Constructicons are on the scene,” Optimus replies. “They have not formed Devastator yet, I expect they will when we arrive.”

A murmur of dismay makes its way round the inside of the ship. Optimus lets it fade before he begins speaking again. “I realise this is daunting, but believe in yourselves. I have confidence in every one of you and your abilities. And remember, we do not fight alone. The EDC will be in the city with us, giving us information and any other assistance they are able to give. Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, I want you two to deal the Seeker trines. Mirage and Hound will assist you.”

The twins glance at each other then shrug. “We'll knock then out of the sky,” Sideswipe says, grinning. Sunstreaker doesn’t speak, just begins checking his weapons.

Prowl thinks it’s a good choice of mechs. The twins are used to fighting with Seekers, their jetpacks giving them some means of engaging the flyers in the air. Mirage and Hound will even the numbers, and the Hound’s projections and Mirage’s cloaking might help.

“I will engage Megatron,” Optimus continues. “Everyone else, focus on the Constructicons. If it is possible, try and stop them combining. If not, try to minimise the damage.”

“Easier said than done,” mutters Huffer to another minibot standing next to him, Gears, who nods in agreement.

Optimus turns his attention to the officers. “Prowl, I want you to coordinate everyone down on the ground. I will be… occupied with Megatron.”

“That's a nice way of saying they’ll be busy punching each other's faces in,” Jazz says, in a loud whisper.

Optimus gives him a look which is more indulgent than reprimanding and there are a few snickers from the floor. “Indeed. Ratchet will stay on the Skyroller. Any casualties are to be taken to him. Ratchet, you are not to enter the battle under any circumstances, understood?”

Ratchet grunts, not at all impressed. “Don't do anything stupid to make me come down there then.”

Optimus shakes his helm, but doesn't argue with the medic. “Remember this is a populated area. The EDC are working to evacuate, but you must all be aware of your surroundings when you're fighting.”

There’s the sound of metal scraping as bots shift in their seats, shooting each other uneasy looks, although no one, not even Huffer vocalises any discontent at this directive.

Prowl stays silent, although he is in agreement; it's going to be difficult enough to keep their own safe in this situation. He opens the commlink between him and Jazz. >Any suggestions for how to run this?<

Jazz’s end of the link hums with amusement. >Not really. I have a feelin’ any plan we make is gonna turn to slag the moment we hit the ground.<

>Agreed.<

>Use Trailbreaker and Smokey as much as you can. Both their abilities are better suited to this type of environment than anyone else's. Apart from that, I think you're gonna have to improvise.<

>That is your speciality.<

>It is. I'll be down there, your optics and audials.< Jazz’s field washes over his own, a warm wave of reassurance. >Prowl? Y’got this.<

Prowl recalibrates his ventilations and nods, trying to project calm and confidence. Out of sight, Jazz slips his servo down between their chairs and squeezes Prowl’s servo quickly.

“Approaching the city limits now, boss,” Wheeljack says from up front. “Fair warning, it might get bumpy - we got Seekers incoming!”

Prowl braces himself and not a moment too soon. The Skyroller shudders, metal groaning as they take fire. On the view screen, Prowl can see the Seekers, Starscream’s trine from the colours, sleek and deadly and flanking them.

Optimus moves into the co-pilot seat, reaching for the controls. “We need to take evasive action.”

“I'm trying,” Wheeljack says, tone terse.

Optimus fires the Skyroller’s guns, managing to force the Seekers further away from the ship. It gives Wheeljack enough space to slip them through and then they’re hurtling towards the city.

It’s pandemonium; buildings are on fire or in a state of destruction, with masonry lying broken in the streets. The air is filled with black plumes of smoke, and EDC helicopters which veer between the tall buildings. Prowl sees the Constructions first, their distinctive green and purple paint jobs lurid against the concrete. It takes a moment longer to spot Megatron, the gun metal grey of his paint camouflage. He’s already spotted them though, helm raised to watch them as they descend behind a tall and wide building to land.

Jazz shudders. “He was smiling,” he says tightly in response to Prowl’s querying look.

Jazz is up and out of his seat before they've even touched down, Prowl only a step behind them.  They're the first off the ship after Optimus.

“Autobots, prepare -”

Whatever speech Optimus was about to make is cut off as the Seekers strike.

Diving low, the jets swoop overhead, strafing the ground with blaster fire. It’s every bot for himself; Prowl dives out of the way, across the road, taking shelter in the narrow alley between two tall buildings. He opens the general Autobot commlink. >Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, get the jets off us now!<

>Leave it to us,< Sideswipe purrs, battle frenzy already bleeding into his field.

Prowl leans out of the alley to watch the twins regroup, standing back to back, cannons pointed at the sky and ready.

>Mirage, Hound, you’re with them. Hound, use your projections to try and confuse them. Mirage, keep me informed.<

>Understood,< Mirage sends curtly. Prowl’s not surprised to spot the spy already by Hound’s side.

>Something like this?<

A skyscraper materialises out of nowhere, jutting upwards. Skywarp, who’d been banking round to make another pass at them almost stalls in mid-air in an attempt not to collide with it.

>You're a natural, Hound,< Jazz sends.

>Good, but they won't fall for the same trick twice,< Prowl cautions.

>I don't know, have you met Skywarp?<

Prowl ignores Jazz's quips. Skywarp may be stupid, but Starscream isn't, the red F-22 wheeling around and diving through the hologram with audial-deafening screech of rage. The hologram flickers, then disappears as Mirage pulls Hound out of the line of fire. Sideswipe fires a rocket at the jet, but Starscream manages to evade, tilting on his side to fly the narrow gap between two buildings. The rocket hits one of the buildings, a tower block, which starts to collapse.

>Watch it!< Bee sends, transforming and speeding out of the way of falling debris.

>Get clear!< Optimus commands, pushing one of the minibots out of the way of a chunk of falling concrete. >Remember, there may be humans here still.<

>We need to get somewhere we’re less closed in,< Jazz agrees, >Normally, cover is a good thing, but this stuff keeps falling on our heads!<

>Working on it,< Prowl sends, looking around. He spots Smokescreen helping Bumblebee to his pedes. >Smokescreen, can you make some cover?<

>Sure - but we won't be able to see where we’re going either.<

>Doesn't matter. Everyone set a marker on your HUD of the direction that Megatron and the other Decepticons were spotted. We’ll split up and make our separate ways there, that way we're too many targets for the Seekers to handle. Wheeljack, on the ship with Ratchet. Get back in the air and find somewhere safer to land, then comm us your position. Blaster will make sure the channel is secure. Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, cover them. < As Prowl finishes giving orders, the ground starts to shake, a distant rumble that grows to a roar, the sound like thunder but impossibly sustained. Prowl’s forced to reach out  a hand and brace himself against the alley wall until the tremors pass.

>What was that?< Smokescreen sends.

>Devastator.< Optimus sends, turning to stare in the direction that the tremors emanated from. >We must hurry. Autobots, roll out.<

Smokescreen doesn’t waste any time. The air is soon filled with his magnetised emissions, grey clouds which swirl around them, thickening until Prowl can't see a single mechmeter ahead of himself. All of his other senses are confounded by the smoke as well. He knows the other Autobots are there with him, in the smog, but he can't pick up their energy readings. It's - disconcerting. He consoles himself with the thought that if he can't detect the other Autobots, neither can the Seekers, and starts to make his way towards the marker he'd set on his HUD.

He might not be able to see them, but he can hear the other Autobots. The scrape of metal against concrete, voices in the distance. Somewhere to his left, blaster fire briefly lights the swirling clouds of smoke. The sounds are oddly muffled, as if coming from a greater distance than he logically knows they are.

>Anyone hurt?< he asks over the comm.

>Uh, nope. Just got a little triggerhappy,< Bluestreak sends, sheepishly.

Prowl frowns. >Be careful.<

He nearly doesn't follow his own advice a klik later when he sees a shadowy form suddenly appear out of the smoke.

>Relax, Prowl, it’s only me.<

Jazz is close enough now that Prowl can make out the soft blue glow of his visor. >Don't sneak up on me like that.<

Jazz’s end of the commlink echoes with amusement. >Mech, if I was sneaking you'd have never have seen me coming.<

It's probably true, but Prowl chooses to ignore that. >How did you find me?<

>I heard you,< Jazz sends, cryptically. He holds out a servo, stopping Prowl. >We’re close. Megatron is up about twenty mechmeters up ahead, round the corner of the building to our left. Devastator must be moving away from us, further into the city.<

>How do you know?< Prowl repeats, even as he gives instructions over the open Autobot channel.

>I told ya. I can hear them.<

Prowl tries to listen as he moves forward. It’s true, he can hear the distant noises of destruction: the wail of car alarms, the rumble of buildings falling, crashes as something big gets hit by something bigger, but he couldn't have guessed with any accuracy how far away the noises were. All the noise is still oddly distorted inside the smoke, noises oddly echoing and muffled by turns. Still, he doesn't doubt Jazz. He'd spent enough time in the other's processor to know how good Jazz's hearing can be.

Prowl orders Smokescreen to cut his emissions. It won't help them fight if they can't see where or who they're firing at. As they get closer the smoke starts to thin. Devastator is the first thing he spots though the gloom. The combiner is grabbing at a tower block and ripping out handfuls of bricks and mortar. Metal beams twist and snap under its monstrous servos. He's staring, but he still spots the purple glow of a fusion cannon being charged.

>Megatron!< He sends the warning.

The smoke is dissipating quicker now. He can make out the other Autobots, paint jobs bright against the tarmac. Megatron is grey against grey, emerging out of the smoke like a creature from the Pit. The other Autobots scatter, the blast from Megatron’s cannon going wide. The warlord doesn’t hesitate, lunging forward, cannon raised and charging for another shot.

A blast hits Megatron’s servo, knocking it away before he can fire on Gears. A snarl curls Megatron’s lips until he looks up and sees who fired the shot.

Optimus Prime, appearing out of the smoke and darkness like a Prime out of ancient legend.

The snarl on Megatron's face fades, replaced by a savage smile. Megatron raises his cannon, but Optimus steps forward, placing himself between Megatron and everyone else. In contrast to Megatron, Optimus’s expression, hidden as it is by his battle mask, shows no anticipation, only a weary resignation.

>Prowl.<

Prowl starts as Optimus opens a private commlink between them. >Yes?<

>Remember the plan. Stop Devastator before he destroys this city. I will keep Megatron occupied.<

Prowl realises he's been frozen in spot for the last couple of kliks. He refocuses immediately, tearing his eyes away from the confrontation between the two war leaders. >Understood.<

>Prowl?<

>Sir?<

>Take care.<

>Of course,< Prowl responds. Optimus closes the commlink as he lunges at Megatron. Prowl drags his optics away, opening the general channel. >Autobots, our target is Devastator. Prepare to engage.<


	23. Chapter 23

There are many disadvantages that come with Prowl's upgrades. As he'd explained to Jazz, the amount of information his processor is constantly tracking is tremendous - and overwhelming. Very few bots are able to handle the TacNet. Only a select few are selected to undergo the upgrade, and only an even smaller group manage to fully integrate the upgrades into their system. Sometimes the processor rejects the upgrades, and the hardware is removed. Sometimes, rarely, but not so rarely it poses an insignificant risk, the upgrades can lead to fatal malfunction. Prowl had been a borderline case. Still, despite the almost constant processor-ache and not infrequent glitches, it’s worth it.

It's worth this; worth being able to keep track of an entire battlefield and every mech on it, worth the ability to monitor multiple channels and feeds for information, keeping him apprised of every development, every setback. It's worth it, even if his processor is pounding a promise of the pain to come. It's keeping him alive. He takes a step to the side, letting the latest projectile Devastator is lobbing sail past him to crash harmlessly into another building.

He'd quickly had to give up on the idea of minimizing damage to the city itself, and instead had concentrated on trying to herd Devastator away from the city centre, where the EDC were still in the process of evacuating, towards the outskirts, which had supposedly already been evacuated. Not all the humans had gotten out. He'd seen dozens, if not hundreds of bodies in the streets, crushed beneath wrecked cars and fallen bricks or simply broken, squishy bodies flattened. It's a sight he's not immune to, though he's seen plenty like it before, and while he may not have  Prime’s love for humanity, he has no desire to see more tiny, broken bodies. Luckily, Devastator is easy to herd. Easy, however, does not mean safe. It's easy to get the combiner’s attention, easy enough to infuriate the combiner with blaster fire that must prickle at the plating, if not cause any substantial damage, and easy then to get the giant to give chase. It just isn't safe.

>Bumblebee, watch out. Move to your left, now!<

Bumblebee obeys, swerving left, tires screeching, out of the way of a massive fist that crashes down, sending cracks through the tarmac where Bumblebee had been sat just kliks before.

>Thanks, Prowl.<

Prowl doesn't reply, unloading his blaster into Devastator, for all the good it does him. The giant takes a lumbering step towards him, another step away from the city. Prowl transforms and speeds away. He's getting tired, his weapons are running low, and they've yet to inflict any actual damage on Devastator. He transforms back to root mode a safe distance away. The other Autobots regroup on him. Looking round, he can tell he's not the only one getting tired and low on fuel. No one has been seriously injured yet, but there have been plenty of close calls, and the frequency of those close calls are only increasing as the battle goes on; all of their reflexes are slowing, their reaction time growing longer, forcing Prowl to compensate by paying closer attention and issuing more frequent warnings. It won't be long until he slips and misses something and someone gets hurt.

As if on cue, Devastator launches a handful of debris at them. There’s not enough time to find cover.

>Trailbreaker!<

The defensive tactician reacts immediately, throwing up a forcefield in a bubble around them, leaving rubble to bounce and patter harmlessly off. The bubbles flickers, then dissipates abruptly. Prowl’s lips tighten. >How much longer will you be able to generate your force shields, Trailbreaker?<

>I’m running low on fuel,< Trailbreaker admits, and Prowl can hear the ragged edge of exhaustion in the other bot’s tone. Useful as his forcefield generator is, it comes with its own drawbacks, such as being energy intensive to power. >Not much longer, Prowl. Sorry.<

>Let me know if your fuel levels drop below twenty percent.<

Trailbreaker sends his acknowledgement, and Prowl turns his attention to the problem at hand. Devastator is making its way towards them, but taking its time, tearing handfuls of masonry down in an almost leisurely fashion as it moves towards them. Towards them, away from the humans, but also further from Prime and Megatron, not to mention the twins, Mirage, Hound, and the Seekers. Prowl shifts uneasily; it hadn't sat well with him, leaving the others to deal with the Seekers, but there was no help for it. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe can't corral the Seekers in the same way he can with Devastator, and Starscream at least is too smart to be led. Even with Hound and Mirage for backup, the frontliners are outnumbered, and it makes Prowl very uncomfortable not to be able to coordinate that particular battle. Which is why he’d sent Jazz.

He thinks about comming Jazz for an update, but contents himself with the knowledge that Jazz would comm him if something was wrong, and if Jazz was hurt too badly to comm him, he'd know then too. It’s cold comfort, but he doesn't allow himself to dwell, dragging his attention back to his own problems. This fight is dragging on too long. He sends a comm to Wheeljack, along with a tag requesting extra encryption from Blaster. It takes a klik to go through, probably as Blaster juggles the extra demand.

>Hello?<

>Everything alright on the ship?<

>Fine. Well, Ratchet’s probably going to wear a hole in the floor pacing, but yeah, fine so far. No one has been back for more than a quick patch job yet.<

Prowl spares a klik for relief at that news. >Good, then if Ratchet can spare you, I have a job.<

>A job?< That's caught the inventor’s attention. >What kind?<

Prowl allows his lips to curl up fractionally, before he fills Wheeljack in on the plan.

“Are you sure you want to be the bait?” Prowl asks, for the second time. He's not one to repeat himself, but he wants to give Bumblebee an out.

Not that the minibot takes it. Field filled with determination, Bumblebee nods. “Let me do it, Prowl. I know I can do it.”

Prowl vents. “Fine. Be careful. We only get one chance at this.”

Bumblebee grins at him. “Don't worry Prowl, I won't blow it!” Bumblebee looks at him expectantly, but Prowl merely returns his look with a flat one of his own.

The minibot droops slightly, but then perks up almost immediately. “So where am I leading him again?”

“Down the road and on the left. You’ll see a red street sign. Head towards it and keep going. You’ll need to be about fifty mechmeters away to be safe, understood?”

Bumblebee nods, losing the smile, an uncharacteristically serious expression on his faceplates. “I understand. I won't mess this up.”

Prowl has to trust him. He leaves Bee, moving away to hide down a narrow side street, out of sight of Devastator. The other Autobots have already disappeared, into their own hiding spots. It's just Bumblebee, alone on the street. He looks very small, suddenly, his paintjob making him a brightly coloured target.

Small, but brave. Bumblebee fires at Devastator, who's been busy demolishing a tower block while Prowl put his plan into play. The blaster fire splashes harmlessly against the Combiner’s plating. “Hey!”

Prowl's not sure if it’s the shouting or the blaster fire that gets Devastator's attention, but whatever it is works. The behemoth pauses in his destruction, swiveling to face Bumblebee. It’s hard to tell, given the size and the fact that combiners in general are pretty mindless, but Prowl thinks that Devastator looks almost bemused.

“Hey! I'm talking to you? What's purple and green and ugly all over?”

Prowl doesn't think that Devastator has the necessary cognitive ability to understand the insult, but nonetheless Bumblebee has its attention. The giant starts shambling towards Bee. It's not that it moves fast; it doesn't have to. Each step it takes erases the distance between it and Bee.

Bumblebee stands his ground, shouting and unloading his blaster into Devastator. Prowl tenses, calculations running through his processor. >Bee - <

The minibot takes off before he can finish his warning, transforming to his altmode and speeding off, tires screeching. Devastator hesitates for a long klik, then begins its ponderous pursuit.

Prowl lets out a vent, suddenly aware his doorwings are trembling. He stills them firmly, then comms Bumblebee. >Good work. Make sure he stays on you.<

>Oh, he’s staying on me.<

Prowl sidles out of the alley. He can't see Bumblebee or Devastator which means they must have taken the turn already. Prowl comms Trailbreaker, who'd gone ahead and found a hiding place close to the site Bumblebee needs to lure Devastator too. >Are they close?<

>Yeah. Prowl, Devastator is right behind Bee. I’m not sure he’s going to be able to get clear in time. <

>Then we go to plan b.<

>I’m not sure I can - <

>It's too late, Trailbreaker. Set off the charge as soon as Devastator is in the centre of the blast radius.< Prowl cuts the commlink before Trailbreaker can protest. There's nothing he can do now to affect the outcome of this plan. He waits; the bomb goes off. Noise, the ground shakes, plumes of black smoke start to rise over the tops of building, and there's the screeching metallic roar of a combiner in pain. Prowl takes off, transforming midstride, towards the explosion.

>Bumblebee, respond! Are you injured?<

No response, just the hiss of static over the commlink. Prowl's fueltanks churn sickeningly, and he forces himself to drive faster, eating through the last of his fuel reserves. He takes the turn at speed, skidding round the corner and narrowly avoiding running over Gears. He doesn't pause to apologise, just keeps going, towards the smoke and flames. >Bee, respond.<

As he gets closer, he spots the Constructions lying amid the wreckage. Devastator has been stopped, the explosion breaking the combiner down back to its constituent parts. That part of the plan was successful at least. He slows down, transforming back to rootmode, and scans the area desperately for a glimpse of bright yellow. No yellow, only a flash of purple - another Decepticon? No -

His doorwings slump in relief as he takes in the sight of the little yellow minibot safely inside one of Trailbreaker’s bubbles. “Bumblebee. You're alive.”

“He can't hear you,” Trailbreaker says, coming up behind Prowl.

Prowl turns, frowning.

Trailbreaker shifts, a little awkward. “I might have panicked. Nothing is getting in or out of that bubble.”

“Including my comms, apparently,” Prowl says, understanding. “I see.” Inside the bubble, Bumblebee is looking around, obviously confused as to why he's still inside. “How long until it comes down?”

“I'm not sure,” Trailbreaker admits. “Probably not long, it takes a lot of fuel to -”

The bubble bursts.

“- let me out?” Bumblebee stumbles forward. He looks up, optics brightening. “Hey! I'm out!”

“Good job,” Prowl says, crossing his arms over his bumper. “You took down Devastator.”

“Well, it was your plan,” Bumblebee says bashfully. “And if it wasn't for Trailbreaker, I wouldn't have made it. So really, we all did it.”

Prowl allows himself a rare smile. “Correct.”

“Great,” Trailbreaker groans, looking somewhat unsteady on his pedes. “I’m just… going to sit down now. If that's okay.”

Prowl observes the way he's swaying alarmingly. “Trailbreaker, I told you to warn me when your reserves dropped below twenty percent.”

“I’m fine.”

“No you're not. Bumblebee, escort Trailbreaker back to the Skyroller to see Ratchet.”

“Sure!” Bumblebee bounces forward, slinging an arm around Trailbreaker. “What are you going to do now, Prowl?”

A good question. Prowl glances around. Despite the odds, everyone on his team other than Trailbreaker is still on their pedes. Weary, with more than a few dents and scratches, but functional. Devastator has been neutralised and the Constructicons are out of the battle. “I’ll try and get through to Prime, see how he’s doing, then probably rendezvous with Jazz and the twins and help with the Seekers. Once you’ve got Trailbreaker to Ratchet, comm me and I’ll tell you the plan.”

“No problem,” Bumblebee says, snapping off a salute. “Just let me know where you need me.”

Prowl nods, then focuses, sending a comm to Prime. His comm goes unanswered. >Blaster, is there any interference that might be stopping my comms from reaching Optimus?<

>Shouldn’t be,< the Autobot communications expert responds, after a moment. >Actually, I’ve not ran into any problems running comms this mission. It’s kinda buggin’ me out. Not like the Cons to play it straight.<

Prowl takes a moment to decode. Sometimes Blaster is more incomprehensible than Jazz, if that’s possible. >No sign of Soundwave?<

>Not a trace.<

>That’s… odd,< Prowl sends, uneasy.

>It’s wack,< Blaster agrees.

>Stay alert,< Prowl orders. >In the meantime, if it’s not Soundwave stopping my comms from getting through, then is there anything else that might be affecting the comms?<

>Commlink is fine. Prime must just be too busy to pick up.<

Prowl cycles a vent. It’s not surprising to hear Optimus is still occupied, but it does mean that Prowl’s on his own in terms of making the decision on what to do next. He cuts the comm to Blaster and looks up. The other Autobots look to him, tired but expectant. “I can’t get through to Prime. I assume this means he’s still occupied fighting Megatron.”

“We gonna go help?” Windcharger asks, scratching his neck plating, a look of not very great enthusiasm on his generally cheerful face.

Prowl shakes his head. “No. We’ll meet up with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe and the others, help them take down the Seekers, then see what Prime wants us to do.”

“What about the Constructicons?” Brawn asks, looking dubiously at the nearest purple and green frame. “Are we just leaving them here?”

Prowl grimaces. He doesn’t want to just leave the Constructicons unattended, but he doesn’t have sufficient forces to take them prisoner, or enough space on the Skyroller to hold them. Still, they might be offline for the moment, but he can’t risk leaving them in case they’re somehow able to reform Devastator. He has no choice. “Brawn, you and Windcharger stay here with the Constructicons.”

“No problem, boss,” Brawn says cheerily. Windcharger doesn’t look as sure of himself.

“If they come back online, I’m not expecting you to keep them from escaping, just try and keep them from reforming Devastator,” Prowl warns.

“So we leaving?” Huffer grumbles. “Take down one lot of Cons, and our reward is we get to fight another lot of Cons?”

Prowl ignores the grumbling. “I’ll see how Jazz and the others are getting on.” He sends a comm to Jazz. The request is ignored. Frowning, he sends another. >Blaster, is there any reason for Jazz not to be receiving my comms?<

>Still no interference as far as I can tell.<

>So why isn’t he picking up?<

A moment of hesitation. >I don’t know. Maybe he’s occupied?<

Prowl sends another comm, then tries to reach down the bond, only to find himself blocked. He has a vague awareness of Jazz, somewhere on the other end of the link, alive, but not responding. He tries not to worry. Perhaps Jazz, too, like Optimus, is simply occupied by the fighting, and can’t spare the time to answer a comm. He sends a comm to Mirage, and is relieved when the commlink opens. >Mirage! What’s going on? Where’s Jazz? How are the twins managing with the Seekers?<

>Prowl, I’m busy,< Mirage snaps, and Prowl actually has to check the commlink for some kind of interference, because he’s never heard Mirage like this. The normally cool and collected bot’s tone is ragged, distorted as if by static, though Prowl’s check shows the commlink as being clean.

>What’s wrong?<

>Hound’s been hurt.< Mirage’s tone wavers unevenly, and Prowl realises with a horrified jolt that the distortion is from emotion.

>How bad?<

>I’m taking him to Ratchet. Comm Sideswipe.< Mirage cuts the commlink abruptly.

That does nothing to assuage Prowl’s growing fear that something on the other end has gone horribly wrong. Ruthlessly, he banishes any concern for Hound out of his processor. Mirage is with him, and Mirage will do anything possible to keep the friendly scout from deactivating. He sends a comm to Sideswipe, and is almost surprised when the commlink connects instantly. >Sideswipe. Report, now.<

>Prowl? Oh man, am I glad to hear from you,< Sideswipe sends, with uncharacteristic sincerity. >Are you able to send reinforcements? We’re holding our own, but I don’t know how long we can keep this up. Hound’s down, and Mirage’s carrying him back to Ratchet - <

>Where’s Jazz?< Prowl cuts Sideswipe off.

>Jazz?<

Prowl’s fueltanks feel like they’re filling with lead at the surprise in Sideswipe’s tone, as if he isn’t sure why Prowl’s asking.

>He’s gone. He left almost as soon as he got here, actually. I thought you knew?<

>Gone where?< Unconsciously, Prowl’s servos clench into fists as he waits for the answer. When he comes, it’s not shock he feels but rage.

>I don’t know. He didn’t say.<

Prowl shutters his optics. _Frag it, Jazz_ , he thinks, viciously. _Where in the Pit are you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been awhile! Life's gotten a bit more hectic, so unfortunately the time between updates is probably going to be a bit more sporadic. I haven't had much of a chance to do any editing so I'm very sorry for any glaring errors. I know I haven't responded to everyone's comments yet, but they are all very much appreciated. <3


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: Some brief torture and invasive interrogation.

Jazz dismisses another comm request from Prowl. This one had been sent bare seconds after his last.  _ Worried, lover? _

He truly must be. Jazz can sense him, reaching down the bondlink that stretches between them, a fragile, delicate thread that neither of them have had the had the time or inclination to strengthen. Still, Jazz has spent a little more time working out how the bondlink works than Prowl, and he knows how to hide from his bondmate. He pulls away from Prowl, closing down the link until he can barely sense Prowl at the other end of it.  _ Sorry _ , he thinks, without a shred of remorse,  _ can’t take your call right now _ . Turning his attention back to the matter at hand, he lets a dangerous smile slowly spread across his faceplates as he looks at Rumble and Frenzy, tied up and fully restrained, matching mutinous expressions on both thier faces. He pulls a vibroblade out of his subspace, and admires the glittering edge. “So… you two loudmouths ready to talk?”

It was Mirage, actually, who’d noticed them. “What are those two doing on this part of the battlefield?” The spy had said, jerking his helm scornfully towards the alley from which Jazz could just see one of the cassette twins peeking. Rumble, the more level-headed of the two, looked downright frightened, but even Frenzy looked a little nervous, like he didn't really want to be there. Jazz too, had wondered why they were there. It wasn't that Soundwave had that many qualms about letting his cassettes loose on the battlefield, or that Ravage and Frenzy couldn't pack a punch for their size, but the cassettes were definitely out of their weight-class for this particular battle.

Out in the open, Sunny and Sides stood side by side, contrasting yet complementary paintjobs gleaming in the dying sunlight that was reflected and refracted a thousand times over in the shards of glass that lay around them. Both their plating was scorched and scratched, but not even Sunstreaker seemed to care, a vicious smile on his face as a jet made the mistake of flying too low to the ground. Pushing off, Sunstreaker’s thrusters engaged as the frontliner launched himself into the air and at the foolish seeker. 

The jet, Skywarp, Jazz thought, from the paintwork, tried to pull up abruptly, but wasn’t entirely successful. Sunstreaker latched onto something that came away with a horrific screeching of twisted metal. The jet managed to rise, flew like a bird with a broken wing. 

Cassettes not forgotten but temporarily ignored, Jazz opened a commlink. >Hey Blaster, any chance you can crack open the Seeker comms? I wanna hear Starscream's tear Skywarp a new one.<

>A worthy goal,< his friend teased, before returning to business. >I can try, but it'll probably take me a while to crack Soundwave's encryption.<

>Just let me know when you crack it,< Jazz had sent, preparing to drop the commlink.

>Huh. That's… odd.<

Jazz ducked round a corner to take cover, as another jet swooped about overhead, this time a more cautious distance from the ground. >What's odd?<

>I cracked the encryption.<

Distractedly, Jazz aimed his blaster up and let off a couple of shots. >That fast? Good work.<

>No, it was easy…

Jazz rolled his optics. >Yeah, yeah. You rule, Soundwave drools.<

>Jazz.<

Jazz registered the seriousness in Blaster’s tone. >What is it?<

>I don’t think the Con's comms are being monitored. I broke the encryption - and it's freakishly basic - but no one’s even noticed.<

Jazz frowned, glancing back to the alley where he could still see Frenzy and Rumble hiding. >What does that mean?<

>I don't know,< Blaster admitted. 

Jazz hesitated. Prowl had sent him here to coordinate the fight against the Seekers, but - 

There was something strange going on, and Jazz has the curiosity of a thousand Terran felinoids. >Hey, ‘Raj. Reckon you can hold down the fort if I go AWOL for a while?<

>Are you going to ask those two half-bytes what they're up to?< Mirage asked, astute as ever.

Jazz smirked, ducking behind a chunk of broken concrete>Y’know me. I’m a softspark really. Wouldn't want the little fraggers to get themselves slagged.<

Not when they seemed to be out without their famously protective carrier to watch out for them, anyway. 

It hadn't been hard to get the drop on the two cassettes. Unlike Ravage or Lazerbeak, they weren't built for stealth, and they hadn't noticed Jazz sneak around behind them until he was slipping a vibroblade into a small gap in the plating on the back of Frenzy’s neck, severing a couple of important but non-lethal wires. The cassette crumpled to the ground, so suddenly that Rumble was still frozen in shock when Jazz stepped forward, vibroblade hissing as it burnt away the traces of Frenzy’s energon. Jazz had met Frenzy’s horrified gaze with a smile, twirling the blade between his digits. “I gotta couple o’ questions for ya.”

Rumble hadn't fought, though if looks could kill, they'd be finding Jazz’s greyed-out frame in some dank human alley. The cassette allowed him to put the vibrocuffs on and to disable his commlink, not resisting when Jazz pushed him in front. “Start walkin’,” Jazz ordered pleasantly, giving the smaller bot a shove between the shoulders. Rumble stumbled, but started walking, throwing a resentful look back. “This is a bad idea,” the cassette warned darkly. “When Soundwave finds out -”

“Sure, why don't you drop that big blocky afthead a line? I'm sure he'll drop whatever Megatron's got him doing and come runnin’,” Jazz drawled, shifting the dead weight that was the still offline Frenzy in his arms. “Keep movin’.”

Rumble had slowed while he tried to scare Jazz, but he picked up the pace again at the prompting, following Jazz's directions. “He’ll come find us,” Rumble said, but his voice was shaking. 

Jazz smiled, behind Rumble’s back. Everything Rumble said was only confirming his suspicions. “See I don’t think so. I don't think Soundwave is going to come lookin’.”

“He’d never leave us!”

“I believe ya. Which is why I know he ain't comin’. If he was able to, you'd have commed him as soon as you seen me, and even if you hadn't, he'd have known something was wrong. You have a symbiotic bond with him after all, and I happen t’know a little about how those things work.”

Rumble’s hands were shaking by his sides, and if Jazz weren't such an sparkless bastard, he'd might have felt bad, but this was his job so he just pressed the point a little further. “So, Soundwave ain't comin’, which means you're on your own.”

Jazz had been leading Rumble up a side street that led to a dead end. The cassette stopped; there was nowhere to run. Jazz saw the desperation as Rumble turned suddenly. “I wouldn't,” he cautioned, holding the vibroblade against the still offline Frenzy’s neck. 

Rumble was poised, frame tensed, even as Jazz pressed the blade against Frenzy’s main energon line. “You’re going to kill us, whatever I do.”

Jazz didn't drop the smile, but he did lower the knife. “Maybe, maybe not.”

Which brought them to now. Jazz had reached into Frenzy’s plating and twisted the severed wires back together, a rough and nasty fix. Frenzy came online with a scream. 

“We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way,” Jazz says, taking a step back.

“Oh we're definitely doing it the hard way,” Frenzy snarls, jerking forward against the makeshift restraints. He pauses uncertainly, taking in his surroundings for the first time. “Wait. What exactly are we doing?”

“We’ll talk,” Rumble says quickly. 

Frenzy makes an incredulous noise, attempting to twist round but unable to move that much. “Like frag we will! We won't talk! You'll have to kill us first!”

“Frenzy!”

“That can be arranged.” Jazz gives Frenzy a cold little smile.

Rumble lets out an anguished wail and pulls against his own restraints. “Fine! Kill that afthead! But I’ll talk!”

“Rumble!” It’s Frenzy's turn to sound horrified. “Shut up, you stupid slagger!” 

“Frenz, he’s serious!”

“Yeah?” Frenzy swallows, shooting Jazz a fearful look, but plows ahead bravely. “Well so am I. You’ll have to kill me!”

Jazz shrugs lazily. “Lucky I got two of you then, ain't it.” He takes a step toward Frenzy, pulling his blade.

“No!” Rumble pulls desperately at his restraints but to no avail. “Look, just ask me, I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

“I'm sure you would,” Jazz says, amicably. “But I ain’t askin’.”

There's a moment when Rumble looks confused, but then he must realise what Jazz means, and the confusion is replaced with horror.

“Sick slagger!” Frenzy snarls, lunging as far forward as he can. Jazz doesn't flinch, just reaches out and slips his fingers back between plating, pulling loose the barely connected wires. Frenzy slumps back offline, hanging heavily forward in the restraints. 

Jazz turns to regard Rumble. “You change your mind?”

To Rumble’s credit there's very little fear on the diminutive Con’s face. He’s mostly wearing an expression of sickened resignation. “Like that’d matter,” he says tonelessly. “Just get on with it.”

“It’ll hurt less, if you don’t fight it,” Jazz says, reaching for the panel that covers Rumble’s ports.

Surprisingly, that's what makes Rumble snarl. “Don’t try and act like you're being kind, you sick piece of -” Rumble cuts off, closing his mouth tightly, optics overbright. “Just get on with it.”

Jazz shrugs, but doesn't say anything, unspooling one of his data cables and connecting them. His optics dim as he reaches down the link and into Rumble's data banks. The connection is nowhere near as deep as the one between him and Prowl, not to mention that this connection is entirely one-sided, but it’s not entirely dissimilar a sensation. He can feel Rumble’s fear and panic, sharp on his glossa like the taste of his own energon. He takes a klik to adjust, then resets his optics, focusing on Rumble. “What were you two doing out there anyway? Who sent you?”

He really wants to know why they were sent - and where Soundwave is, a fact he's sure is related, but he doesn't want to press too hard to start with. If he wanted, Jazz could just reach down the link and into Rumble's mind and rip out whatever he wants to know, but that requires more concentration and would leave him vulnerable while he was doing it. Not to mention what it would do to Rumble. 

Not that Rumble seems to care. He stays silent, glaring rebelliously. 

“C’mon,” Jazz snaps, losing patience. “Don't make this harder than it needs to be.” Reaching through the link, Jazz sends a databurst that stimulates Rumble’s pain receptors, twisting the cassette around in his restraints in a sharp but short fit of agony.

Rumble’s resolve seems to crumble just a little. “Starscream told us to go and try and distract those two glitches. “

“Since when do you take orders from Starscream?” Jazz asks, distracted, feeling down the link. It doesn't feel like a lie exactly, but it doesn't make sense either. Starscream might technically be Second-In-Command, but in practise the cassettes only seem to answer to Soundwave and Megatron. “Where’s Soundwave?”

Rumble doesn't answer, even when Jazz sends another, longer burst of agony down the connection.

Tired of playing nice, Jazz presses down the link, forcibly overriding Rumble’s security protocols, breaking down his firewalls, and searching through the cassettes databanks until he finds the files he needs. Shutting off his optics, he starts to play them through. 

It takes Jazz a moment to orient himself when he opens his optics. He's looking through Rumble’s optics as he plays through a memory file. His first impression is of a grey and oddly lit space. After a klik, his processor adjusts and starts to make sense of what he's seeing. 

He - or rather, Rumble - is in a very large and almost empty room. From the unpainted metal walls and the dappled light coming through a window that looks out into water, he assumes this memory takes place somewhere on the Nemesis. Soundwave is knelt in the middle of the room. The tapedeck looks oddly small, on his knees and alone.

Jazz can feel Rumble’s fear, so much stronger in this memory than it is even now, and he can feel the unsettling shadow of the distress of the other cassettes, echoing emptily down the memory of the symbiotic bond that links them all. He can sense Soundwave too, somewhere in the mix, in a familiar yet different manner to the way Jazz can always sense Prowl. There’s something else in the bond apart from fear, something dark and sour like curdled energon. Pain. One of the cassettes is in the kind of pain that would make shutting down a mercy. 

In the background, Jazz wonders what he's seeing. He'd been drawn to this memory because Rumble had been trying to hide it, so it must be important.

“Rumble -”

Jazz almost doesn't recognize Frenzy's voice, he sounds so different and so quiet, like he's trying not to be heard.

“Rumble, please, we gotta go to him, we gotta -”

“Shut up, Frenz,” Jazz hears himself say softly, and reach out with a servo to grab one of Frenzy's. From how tightly Rumble's squeezing, Jazz isn't sure if it's meant to comfort or restrain. 

“But Rumble -”

Jazz feels a sudden sharp and wordless command from the symbiotic bond, and Frenzy falls silently abruptly. That command must have come from Soundwave. 

A breem later, and they know why. A door slides open and Megatron strides through. Jazz feels himself flinch back against the wall, and go suddenly very still. 

Jazz can see why. Always somewhat volatile, Megatron looks to be in one of his worse moods. He strides past Soundwave, still knelt on the floor, like he's a piece of the scenery, moving past him to the window that makes up most of the far wall.

Silence. 

Soundwave stays perfectly motionless, on his knees and helm lowered, a perfect picture of submission, not that Megatron seems to care for the sight. The warlord stays, looking out of the window into the murky depths of the water. Jazz feels Rumble grow restless,an itch under someone else’s plating, but he holds himself still, loyalty to his master winning over his natural propensity to fidget. 

Finally, Megatron seems to grow bored of staring broodingly out of the window. Megatron turns his attention to Soundwave, a look of dissatisfaction on his faceplates. Jazz wishes he could get a read on Soundwave. The big Con is facing away from him, not that his face tends to give much away anyway, what with the visor and the mask. Rumble’s anxiety is clouding anything he might be able to sense from the bond, although he suspects he wouldn't be able to pick up much from Soundwave anyway. Jazz finds himself uneasy, drawn into Rumble’s fear more than he'd like. He had thought Megatron angry when he entered the room, but he's used to seeing Megatron’s rage as something wild and immediately vicious. Whatever is going on here is something more subtle, but no less dangerous. 

“So,” Megatron begins finally, tone almost bored. “Do you want to explain how, exactly, not one, not two, but three Autobots managed to get into this base? And then how one of those Autobot's managed to get to the space bridge, hide somewhere in a room you told me you had personally checked, and sneak across to Cybertron to destroy a project that has taken entire cycles of this planet’s orbit to complete?”

Rumble flinches. Ah. Its this day. Well, that definitely explains Megatron’s mood. Jazz steels himself mentally; he's sure that whatever he's about to see next is going to be pretty nasty, especially with the emotional feedback of seeing it from Rumble's perspective. 

“Well?” Megatron snarls, striding toward Soundwave. “What do you have to say for yourself.”

There's the click of a vocaliser coming online but no words. Jazz realises with an uneasy twist of his guts that Soundwave, never one for talking, is literally lost for words.

“C’mon boss,” Frenzy hisses, under the range of Megatron's audials. “Y’gotta say something.”

Frenzy is right. Jazz knows enough about Megatron and the way he punishes his own to know that the warlord likes to be begged. Occasionally, enough begging and promises to do better have even spared Starscream from a beating. But then, this isn't Starscream. 

“Soundwave: checked room. Room: was clear -”

Megatron cuts Soundwave off with a sharp blow that knocks his helm back. 

Jazz grimaces internally. Wrong approach, completely. Whatever else this is, this isn't Megatron looking for an explanation. 

“You messed up, Soundwave.” 

Soundwave bows his helm once more. There's a faint crackle of static as his vocaliser comes back online. “Acknowledged.”

Inside Rumble, Jazz frowns, perplexed. There's something very strange about this situation. Well, it’s strange to see Megatron whaling on an officer that isn't Starscream, but that's not it. 

“You've disappointed me,” Megatron continues, beginning to circle round Soundwave at a leisurely speed. To Soundwave’s credit, he doesn't look up, even though his safety protocols must be on alert given Megatron's proximity and the anger rolling off of the warlord's field. 

Jazz is filled with frustration. Megatron is acting too calm for the anger that Jazz can read in his field. Aside from one hit that barely counts as a love tap and a bit of menacing, Megatron hasn't actually done anything to Soundwave yet, let alone anything to incapacitate him from being on the battlefield today. Jazz doesn't get this, it doesn't fit the pattern he's observed time and time again: Megatron is quick to anger, and brutal in his punishment, but he's also not one to draw things out. Megatron has already got Soundwave to admit responsibility for Jazz successfully destroying the generator, so why hasn't Megatron started his punishment. He turns his attention back to room. 

“Soundwave: deeply regrets disappointing Lord Megatron.”

Megatron pauses in his circling. “Lord, hm? At least you show some respect while groveling.”He starts walking again. “So, Soundwave. Am I still your lord?”

Soundwave's helm actually raises at that, and Jazz would bet an entire month’s energon that the big Con is surprised. Jazz is too, for that matter. “Of course,” Soundwave replies, and that's definitely surprise if he's talking in standard syntax. 

“So you're weren't planning some act of treachery when allowing that filthy Autobot spy  to cross my space bridge and to destroy my property, you were merely incompetent.”

Soundwave flinches almost imperceptibly. “Soundwave: loyal.”

“Yes, Soundwave, but to whom?” Megatron comes to a stop in from of Soundwave, staring down at him with unreadable red optics. 

Jazz can admit even he might be intimidated by that scrutiny, but Soundwave doesn’t hesitate. “Soundwave’s loyalty: always to Megatron.”

“Hm.” To Jazz's disbelief that actually seems to mollify Megatron slightly. The warlord drops a servo onto Soundwave’s helm. “I believe you, Soundwave.”

Soundwave doesn't sag in relief, but Jazz thinks he might relax fractionally. 

“At least,” Megatron continues, and something in his tone hits Jazz like a flush of coolant through his circuits, sending him cold. “I trust you not to betray me to the Autobots, or to do as Starscream does and seek to take my power for your own. But I don't believe your loyalty is to me alone.”

“Soundwave -”

“Shut up.”

This time Megatron doesn't hit him, but Soundwave stops talking as abruptly as if he had.  

“Why did you fail to apprehend Jazz?” Megatron asks, and while Jazz knows this is just a memory file, and he's in no danger of discovery here, his wiring still tingles unpleasantly with fear at the sound of his name. “There was you, and all your cassettes, and you had Starscream as well. Certainly enough to subdue one little Autobot.”

There's a long silence. Megatron seems happy to wait, still uncharacteristically patient. 

“Autobot: had Ravage,” Soundwave finally manages to say. As always his tone is flat, but Jazz can hear the pleading underneath the monotone. Soundwave is ready to beg. “Ravage: hurt. Ravage: very good, very skilled asset, too valuable to lose -”

Soundwave is a bad liar for a spy. 

This time the blow is hard enough to rock Soundwave back. There's a crack and then a delicate tinkle and as Rumble lurches forward abortively Jazz catches sight of shards of broken red glass scattered on the floor. Soundwave's visor must have shattered. 

“You could have caught the spy,” Megatron says, and Jazz sees now, this is what Megatron was angry about, what he’d been holding his anger back for. 

Soundwave looks up, and Jazz can’t see his face but he thinks he meets Megatron's gaze as he replies, “Yes.”

It’s as if that one word was all the confession Megatron had been waiting for, and then the beating Jazz had expected since the moment he entered this memory begins. 

Jazz pulls away, withdrawing from the memory file, not caring to watch any longer. He’s got a strong stomach, and he'd happily kill Soundwave given the chance, but he has no interest in watching Megatron smack Soundwave around until bits start coming off when Soundwave's never going to make a move to defend himself.

He doesn't bother searching through the rest of Rumble’s files; he's already spent longer investigating this than he'd planned to, and just pulls back into his own processor. He opens his optics, and experiences a klik of brief but intense nausea and disorientation before his processor clears. 

Rumble, not as experienced, and on the wrong end of the connection, doesn't recover so well. 

Jazz grimaces and hastily jumps back as the cassette falls forward in his restraints and noisily empties his fuel tank. 

“You done?” he asks, forcing himself not to sound sympathetic.

“Are you?” Rumble asks, vocaliser tired and scratchy.

“Yeah, I'm done.”

Rumble huffs a bitter laugh, still hanging forward in his restraints. “You got what you wanted, huh? Well I hope you got a good laugh out of watching the boss -” Rumble’s vocaliser glitches into static before Rumble cuts himself off. 

Jazz gives the cassette a moment to get himself under control. It’s a small kindness, and Jazz got what he wanted, he can afford to be magnanimous now.

“What happens now?” Rumble says, after he's got himself back under control. “You gonna kill me and Frenz?”

Jazz shrugs, “That depends on you.”

“What d’you want now?” Rumble says, too defeated to even snarl. “I've already given you everything.”

“Y’did. Ta very much for that. I didn't even have to torture ya and barely had to threaten ya.” Jazz grins, leaning in close and tapping a digit under Rumble’s chin. “Makes me wonder how loyal you are to ol’ buckethead.”

That gets a little fire back into Rumble, and Jazz is glad to see it, and know that the cassette’s spirit hasn't been too broken. “Loyal enough,” Rumble hisses, jerking his helm up and away from Jazz’s touch. “I'm not gonna defect to join your bunch of bleeding sparked losers, so don't get your hopes up.”

“Too late, they're crushed,” Jazz says, clutching a servo to his hood in mock affront. “Nah, bolts for brains, I’m not interested in getting you on my team. I just want you to take back a message back to your boss for me.”

Rumble gives Jazz a look that says he thinks Jazz had lost it. “A message? What do  _ you _ have to say to the boss?”

“I want you to give him my commlink.”

Rumble lets out a burst of laughter, then stops. “Oh, you're serious.”

“As a heart attack,” Jazz says with a wink, only to be met with a blank stare. “Anyway. Do we got a deal?”

Rumble shifts in his restraints. “That's… it? You don't want me to send you mission plans or security codes or sabotage Starscream’s paint supply?”

“Nah. Unless you want to do any of that stuff?”

“No. Well, maybe sabotage Starscream, but not the security codes or anything like that.” Rumble stares at Jazz, looking bewildered. “You just want me to pass on your commlink?”

“Yeah. Well, a private commlink o’ mine anyways, not my work one f’r obvious reasons.” Jazz shifts on his pedes. He hasn't received any comms from Prowl in over half an hour, but the radio silence is more ominous than reassuring. “Look, can we hurry this up?”

Rumble just stares at him. “You’ll let me and Frenz go?”

Jazz keeps his patience and nods. 

“Okay,” Rumble says suddenly. “You got a deal.”

“Alright, good.” Jazz pulls the vibroblade and before Rble can flinch, cuts through the knots of the restraints. Rumble drops abruptly, staggering. Jazz cuts Frenzy down while Rumble finds his pedes. “I’ll let you fill your brother in on this situation.” He glances up to see Rumble staring at him uncertainly. “What? Having second thoughts?” He tightens his grip on the vibroblade. 

“No,” Rumble says, shaking his helm. “Just… you know the boss is probably gonna delete this number as soon as I give it to him right? “

Jazz gets to his pedes, dusting himself down. “Maybe. Or maybe he ain't as loyal to Megatron as he thinks.” Jazz cracks a smile. “I think it's worth the risk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! I know it's been a while but I'm not dead!! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I tried a couple of things that involved switching tenses, so if that's horrible to read please let me know and I'll try and fix it XD  
> I'd like to promise that I'll have the next chapter up sooner, but I don't want to make promises I can't keep, so it'll be up as soon as possible. Thanks for all your patience and support, everyone in the comments have been really understanding.


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